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IllustratecL 


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THE  FAVOEITE  SCHOLAR. 

By  MARY  HOWITT. 
AND    OTHER    TALES. 


^iiifi^^y 


^^fel 


^>\i^on"U^  J^cLoIair, 


day  }i\\i\v\\  rrowitt. 


By  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall,  Charles  Cowden  Clark,  and 
James  D.  Haas. 


^  jamcs  gliller>  r)22  groabtoag,  ^^ 


CONTENTS. 


THK  FAVORITE  SCHOLAR.     Atter  the  German  of  Karl 
SU>ber By  Mary  ITMcitt.      7 

'NUMBER  ONE.' By  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall.    85 

LITTLE  CIIATTEEBOX By  Mrs,  S.  C.  Hatt.    65 

PERSEVERANCE:  or  God  Helps  Them  who  Help  Them- 
selves  By  Chas.  0.  Clark.    S9 

SAVOYARD  EOT  AND  HIS  LITTLE  SISTEIi.     Adapted 
from  the  German  of  H.  Kletke By  James  D.  Haas.  129 

SUPERSTITIOUS  FEAR 1T6 

give; 183 


THE  FAVORITE  SCHOLAR, 


APTEH  THE  GERMAN  OF  KARL  OTOBBR. 


BT  UABT  HOWITT. 


PART    I. 

'T  was  Saturday  afternoon,  and 
Johann  Engelhardt,  the  school- 
master and  curate  of  Pappen- 
heim,  sate  in  his  dressing-gown 
and  slippers  outside  his  garden- 
door,  before  a  little  writing-table, 
enjoying  the  luxurious  indepen- 
dence of  the  Saturday  afternoon 
in  revising,  for  the  hundredth  time,  his  manu- 
script '  Treatise  on  the  Dual  of  the  Greek  Nouns.' 
Barbara,  his  old  r.ervant,  was  busied  within  the 
kitchen,  preparing  cherry-cake  for  the  Sunday's 
dinner. 

'Barbara,'  inquired  the  Curate,  'has  Fried- 
rich  been  here  this  afternoon  ? ' 

'  No,'  said  she  ;  '  what  should  he  come  for, 
the  poor  boy  ?  Was  he  not  in  the  school  this 
raorninsf  ? ' 


8  THE    FAVOKITE    6CH0LAE. 

'  No,'  returned  the  Curate  ;  '  but  make  the 
cake  big  enough,  Barbara ;  he  shall  dine  with  us 
to-morrow.' 

'  Butcher  Metsger,'  said  Barbara,  '  dines  like 
a  prince  on  Sundays  ;  there  are  two  joints,  and 
vegetables,  and  a  pudding;  but  for  all  that,  Fried- 
rich  would  much  rather  dine  here.  It  is  a  pity  he 
cannot  live  with  us,  for  they  never  .can  make  a 
butcher  of  him  ! ' 

'  The  Lord's  will  be  done,'  returned  the  cu- 
rate sighing ;  '  he  knows  that  which  is  best  for 
us  all,  and  yet  — '  he  did  not  finish  his  sentence, 
but  he  began  a  calculation  in  his  own  mind,  which 
he  had  made  at  least  a  dozen  times  before,  name- 
ly, whether  the  income  which  barely  sufficed  for 
two  persons  could  be  made  to  maintain  three. 
The  calculation  ended  with  another  deep  sigh, 
by  which  we  may  conclude  that  the  result  of  it 
was  not  satisfactory. 

*  Barbara,'  again  began  the  Curate,  '  see  that 
on  Monday  my  every-day  coat  is  mended  at  the 
elbows,  and  on  Tuesday  let  it  be  folded  neatly, 
and  put  in  the  press  ;  a  few  days'  rest  now  and 
then  is  good  for  everything.'  Barbara  said  that 
this  should  be  attended  to,  adding  that  she  had 
looked  out  his  walking  shoes,  and  that  they  should 
be  oiled  and  made  ready  for  Wednesday.  The 
Curate  said  that  was  right,  and  then  Barbara 
having  made  two  cherry-cakes  instead  of  one,  in 
expectation  of  the  morrow's  guest,  went  out  with 
them  on  her  head  to  the  bakehouse.    The  Curate 


THE    FAVORITE    SCHOLAR.  9 

then  filled  his  pipe,  lighted  it,  and  began  to  pace 
slowly  up  and  down  the  middle  alley  of  his  gar- 
den J  and  while  he  is  so  doing  we  will  give  the 
reader  a  little  information  which  he  ought  to 
possess  for  the  better  imderstandingof  our  story. 

According  to  the  ancient  regulations  of  the 
grammar-school  in  Pappenheim,  it  was  required 
that  the  master,  four  times  in  the  year,  that  is  to 
say,  at  the  end  of  each  quarter,  should  drink  a 
certain  quantity  of  a  certain  mineral  water,  on 
which  occasion  he  received  his  prescribed  quar- 
terly payment  of  about  two  pounds  sterling. 

At  the  end  of  every  quarter  therefore  he  drank 
mineral  water.  This,  of  course,  concerned  him- 
self, and  was  his  own  private  affair :  but  had  our 
dear  young  readers  heard,  on  the  close  of  the 
quarterly  Saturday  afternoon,  when  the  worthy 
schoolmaster  made  known,  in  a  clear  tone  of  voice 
and  in  language  easy  to  be  understood,  that,  on 
the  following  Monday  he  should  drink  the  min- 
eral waters,  and  had  heard  thereupon  the  mur- 
mur of  applause,  and  had  seen  the  nodding  of 
heads  and  the  broad  grins  of  delight  that  follow- 
ed, he  would  have  been  quite  sure  that  the  schol- 
ars, every  one  of  them,  had  in  it  their  share  of 
pleasure  also. 

The  truth  was,  that  this  announcement  of  the 
Schoolmaster,  which  to  unlearned  ears  simply 
expressed  his  intention  of  drinking  mineral 
waters  on  the  next  Monday,  was  just  the  same 
to  the  scholars  as  if  he  had  gone  on  to  say,  and 


10  THE  FAVORITE  SCHOLAH. 

that,  on  Tuesday,  he  should  receive  presents 
from  their  parents ;  and  on  Wednesday,  that  he 
should  take  them — the  scholars — all  a  long 
famble.  In  all  this  the  scholars  had  a  long 
perspective  of  happiness  ;  first,  there  was  a 
whole  holiday  on  Monday  for  play ;  secondly, 
on  Tuesday,  there  was  the  home  preparation  of 
presents,  cakes,  and  dried  fruits,  eggs  and  cheeses, 
part  of  which  they  themselves  were  to  eat  with 
the  master,  to  say  nothing  of  the  pickings  and 
gleanings  which  they  had  beforehaiid  ;  and 
thirdly  and  lastly,  there  was,  on  Wednesday, 
the  ramble  beyond  the  limits  of  their  own  nar- 
row valley,  and  sometimes  even  the  climbing  to 
the  top  of  a  mountain,  whence  they  got  a  peep 
into  the  wide  world. 

Thus  much  told,  Ave  return  to  the  Curate, 
whom  we  left  smoking  his  pipe  in  the  middle 
alley  of  his  garden.  Whilst  he  was  thus  en- 
circled, as  it  were,  by  a  halo  of  fragrance,  the 
door  in  the  angle  of  the  garden-wall  slowly 
opened,  and  a  head  was  thrust  cautiously  in,  and 
then  as  cautiously  withdrawn  again  and  the 
door  closed,  but  so  softly  as  not  to  catch  the  ear 
of  the  Curate.  The  head  that  was  thrust  in 
was  that  of  a  boy  of  perhaps  twelve  years  of  age, 
fine-featured,  and  delicately  complexioned,  whose 
abundant  hair,  Avavy  rather  than  curled,  fell  up- 
on his  shoulders,  and  was  partially  covered  by 
a  little  black  cap,  which  sate  gracefully  on  the 
crown  of  his  head,  and  just  touched  the  tip  of 


THE  FAVORITE  SCHOLAR.         11 

his  right  ear.  Had  we  or  the  Curate  been  near 
enough,  that  momentary  glimpse  would  have 
sufficed  to  show  an  expression  of  apprehension 
and  trouble  on  that  young  countenance.  The 
Curate  walked  on,  and  as  the  boy  has  apparent- 
ly withdrawn  himself,  we  will  take  this  oppor- 
tunity of  making  the  reader  better  acquainted 
with  him. 

Friedrich  Seyfried,  ridiculed  by  his  compan- 
ions for  his  love  of  books,  and  for  his  fits  of 
absence  and  abstraction  of  mind,  was  the  son  of 
a  poor  but  learned  man,  whose  books,  though 
found  on  the  shelves  of  the  erudite,  brought 
money  into  nobody's  pocket  but  the  printer's. 
He  died  whilst  his  son  was  yet  too  young  to 
remember  him ;  and  his  widow,  who  after  his 
death  maintained  herself  and  her  son  by  the 
embroidery  of  carpets,  had  now  been  dead  also 
a  few  months.  Friedrich  had  been  carefully 
and  well  nurtured  by  his  mother,  and  he  had 
been  long  the  favorite  scholar  of  the  Curate,  who, 
after  his  mother's  death,  took  him  to  remain  in 
his  house  until  some  one  of  his  relations  offered 
to  provide  for  him. 

The  relations  however  made  no  haste  with 
these  offers,  and  when  they  did,  they  were,  un- 
fortunately, by  no  means  successful.  The  first 
who  made  trial  of  him  was  an  apothecary,  the 
half-brother  of  his  mother.  For  a  few  weeks, 
all  went  on  very  well  ;  the  apothecary  was 
charmed  with  his  knowledge  of  Latin  and  Greek, 


12  THE  FAVORITE  SCHOLAR. 

and  already  began  to  employ  him  in  compound- 
ing of  medicines.  Unfortunately  however,  one 
day  as  he  was  ordered  by  the  cook  to  prepare 
mug-wort  for  the  roast  goose,  in  a  fit  of  absence 
of  mind  he  gave  her  wormwood  instead.  A 
Michaelmas  goose  cooked  with  wormwood"  was 
an  unheard  of  dish  ;  the  goose  was  spoiled. 
Friedrich,  that  same  night,  was  sent  back  to  the 
Curate's,  with  a  polite  note  from  ihe  apothecary, 
saying  that  he  would  not  have  his  life  embitter- 
ed by  so  unskilful  a  person. 

The  next  attempt  was  with  the  half-brother  of 
Friedrich's  father,  who  was  a  shopkeeper  and 
gingerbread-baker  ;  but  things  went  on  no  better 
here  than  at  the  apothecary's,  for  whilst  the 
poor  lad  was  learning  the  compounding  of  gin- 
gerbread, his  mind  was  afloat  among  his  books 
and  his  learning,  and,  mistaking  salt  for  sugar, 
he  shook  a  whole  dishful  into  the  mass,  which 
was  intended  for  Basle  gingerbread,  and  ruined 
the  whole  baking.  His  uncle,  who  was  a  pas- 
sionate man,  gave  him  a  box  on  the  ear  as  a 
warning  to  leave,  and  bade  him  tell  the  Curate 
that  he  would  not  lose  his  property  and  his 
profits  in  that  way  for  any  book-worm  in  the 
world. 

Friedrich  returned  to  the  school-house  hum- 
bled and  mortified ;  and  the  apothecary  and  the 
gingerbread-baker,  who  supped  together  thai 
night,  agreed  that  a  '  boy  whose  head  was  aJ- 


fH£  FAVORITE  SCHOLAR.  13 

ways  running  a  wool-gathering  could  not  be 
much  better  than  an  idiot.' 

The  Curate's  was  a  spare  table.  Very  little 
sufficed  for  him  and  old  Barbara,  and  poor 
Friedrich  had  no  chance  of  getting  fat  there. 
The  butcher's  wife,  as  she  saw  his  thin  fingers 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  hymn-book  in 
church,  had  compassion  on  him,  and  as  her 
husband  was  his  godfather,  she  persuaded  him 
to  make  a  trial  of  him.  Friedrich  had  no  taste 
for  killing  cattle,  but  nevertheless,  after  his 
former  failure,  he  went  there  with  the  determin- 
ation to  be  useful.  Nothing  reconciled  the 
Curate  to  the  thought  of  his  being  a  butcher, 
but  the  knowledge  that  he  would  have  enough 
to  eat. 

The  good  Curate  was  consoling  his  mind 
with  this  reflection  at  the  very  moment  when 
Friedrich  opened  the  garden-door. 

Friedrich  was  still  standing  outside,  with  his 
hand  upon  the  lock,  and  an  expression  of  ir- 
resolution on  his  countenance,  when  Barbara, 
who  was  returning  from  the  bakehouse,  came 
unexpectedly  upon  him. 

'  How  now,  Friedrich,'  cried  she,  '  are  you 
here  ? ' 

'  O,  Barblira,'  said  he,  almost  crying,  '  what 
will  he  say  ? ' 

'  So  then,  they  have  sent  you  back  again, 
have  they  ? '  asked  the  old  woman.     '  Well,  and 


14  THE    FAVOIilTE    SCHOLAR. 

what  blunder  have  you  made  this  time  ;  spoiled 
another  goose,  have  you  ? ' 

By  this  time  they  were  in  •  the  kitchen,  and 
Friedrich,  throwing  himself  into  a  low  seat,  un- 
burdened his  conscience  to  Barbara.  '  I  know 
they  are  very  angry,'  said  he,  '  and  I  do  not 
wonder ;  for  only  think — and  I  cannot  conceive 
how  I  did  it — I  emptied  a  gall  into  a  mess  of 
sausage-meat,  and  it  was  never  found  out  till 
the  half  of  Pappenheim  were  eating  their  din- 
ners to-day ! ' 

Barbara  buFst  into  a  violent  fit  of  laughter, 
and  Friedrich,  who  thought  the  affair  anything 
but  amusing,  sate  looking  very  mournful,  and 
twisting  a  piece  of  paper  between  his  fingers. 

'  What  have  you  there  ? '  asked  she,  wiping 
away  the  tears  of  her  laughter  with  her  apron. 

'It  is  a  note  for  the  Curate,'  said  the  boy ; 
'  they  made  me  promise  to  give  it  him,  for  they 
know  that  I  never  broke  my  word.  It  is  some- 
thing very  bad  about  me,  and  it  will  make  him 
angry  I  know ;  but  he  shall  see  it  for  all  that.' 

Barbara  took  it,  and  read  what  was  written : 
'  Hum  ! '  said  she,  when  she  had  finished,  '  it  is 
the  old  story  over  again  ;  he  won't  have  his 
life  and  the  lives  of  his  customers  embittered  by 
any  one  who  cannot  tell  a  nail  in  a'wall  from  a 
sausage-pan  ; '  again  the  old  woman  laughed, 
and  then  went  through  the  porch  into  the  gar 
den,  where,  his  pipe  being  ended,  the  Curate 
had  seated  himself  again  at  his  wriiing-desk. 


THE    FAVORITE    SCHOLAR.  15 

When  Barbara  returned,  she  looked  almost 
as  grave  as  Friedrich  himself,  and  bade  him  go 
to  the  Curate  in  the  garden. 

Friedrich  stole  softly  to  the  front  of  the  little 
writing-desk,  and  stood  like  a  culprit ;  the  Cu- 
rate, in  whose  hand  was  the  piece  of  paper 
which  Barbara  had  given  him,  eyed  him  severe- 
* Friedrich,'  said  he,  *  what  is  to  be  done  ?  I 
would  maintain  you  willingly,  if  I  could,  the 
Lord  knows ;  but,  as  I  cannot,  it  is  high  time 
that  you  learned  to  get  your  own  living.  As  to 
studying,  you  must  give  that  up  ;  you  have  not 
one  farthing  for  that.' 

'  0,  reverend  sir ! '  answered  the  poor  boy,  '  I 
have  the  very  best  will  to  get  my  own  living, 
but  I  cannot,  I  cannot !  and  why,  He  knows  best 
who  created  me.  1  went  to  my  godfather's  with 
the  firmest  determination  to  be  mindful,  and  not 
to  give  you  any  more  trouble ;  but  neither  my 
head  nor  my  hand  is  good  for  any  trade.  When 
1  was  at  the  apothecary's,  if  I  went  to  fetch 
herbs  out  of  the  ingredient-room,  then  came 
*  Beatus  iUe  qui  procuV  into  my  head,  and  I 
brought  the  wrong  thing;  and  at  the  ginger- 
bread-maker's even  while  I  was  trying  to  do 
right,  and  to  avoid  both  the  anger  and  the 
laughter  of  them  all,  I  was  sure  to  mistake  one 
thing  for  another;  and  at  my  godfather's,  if  I 
look  a  sausage  by  the  end,  it  was  sure  to  slij» 
out  of  my  fingers ;   if  I  took  hold  of  it  by  both 


iO  THB.  FAVOKITE    SCHOLAR. 

ends,  they  all  laughed  at  me,  and  ^Iced  if  1 
thought  it  would  run  away.' 

The  Curate  smile'd  too  at  this  simple  and 
candid  confession. 

That  smile  went  to  the  poor  boy's  heart,  and 
he  said  mournfully,  and  with  tears  in  bis  eyes, 
'  I  know  not  that  which  the  Almighty  wills  for 
me,  poor  orphan  !  It  seems  to  me  as  if  every- 
thing excepting  books  burnt  my  fingers,  and  yet 
I  must  renounce  books  for  ever !  My  soul 
thirsts  after  the  fountains  of  knowledge  ;  I  feel 
the  thirst  as  the  reaper  feels  his  in  harvest-time, 
and  yet  I  must  renounce  the  very  means  which 
would  satisfy  it !  O,  reverend  sir,  you  have 
your  pleasure  in  books,  you  know  what  it  is ; 
vou  are  the  only  person  in  Pappenheim  who 
can  understand  me  ;  I  have  displeased  you,  I 
know,  but,  O,  cast  me  not  off!  tell  me  only  to 
whom  I  could  turn  myself!' 

The  Curate  turned  his  face  from  the- boy,  and 
fixing  his  eyes  upon  the  garden-bed  opposite,  as 
if  studying  the  growing  cabbages,  said  jwith  a 
Bomewhat  tremulous  voice  :  '  Friedrich,  I  think 
that,  hitherto,  we  have  forgotten  over  our  books 
the  right  person,  namely,  the  Almighty;  that  is 
to  say,  I  think  that  we  have,  hitherto,  studied 
too  much,  and  prayed  too  little.  Instead,  as 
hitherto,  of  going  here  and  there,  and  knocking 
at  the  doors  of  friends  and  relatious,  we  should 
hare  given  all  honor  and  preference  to  the 
father  in  heaven,  and   have  knocked  at  hia 


FAVOKltE    SCHOLAH.  17 

door :  '  Knock,  and  it  shall  be  opened  to  you,' 
he  says  ;  and  his  gracious  words  are,  •  Call  on 
me  in  thy  need,  and  I  will  help  thee,  and  thou 
shalt  praise  me.'  He  alone  is  it  who  has  for 
every  Samuel  a  temple,  for  every  David  a  harp, 
and  for  every  son  of  Saphat  a  prophet's  mantle. 
And,  my  poor  Friedrich,  he  who  has  created 
this  thirst  in  thee,  will  also  show  thee  a  fountain 
of  water  in  the  desert !  But  we  must  seek  that 
which  we  need  from  him  in  prayer.' 

Friedrich  heard  the  words  of  his  kind,  father- 
ly friend.  He  made  no  reply,  but  went  at  once 
into  the  little  cell-like  chamber  which  had  been 
hitherto  allotted  to  him,  in  the  old  school-house, 
as  his  sleeping-room  ;  and  there,  bolting  the 
door  on  himself,  poured  out  all  his  griefs  before 
his  Father  in  heaven,  with  many  tears. 


PART    II. 

It  was  now  Wednesday  morning,  the  morning 
of  the  great  quarterly  ramble ;  and  already,  soon 
after  daybreak,  the  Latin  scholars  were  assem- 
bled in  the  court  of  the  school-house,  waiting 
for  the  Curate,  Friedrich,  and  the  curate's  dog, 
who  always  made  one  of  the  party  on  such  oc- 
casions. 

Long  before  the  scholars  had  assembled  in 
the  court, — before  the  dog's  impatient  bark  was 
2 


18         THE  FAVORITE  SCHOLAR. 

heard, — almost  before  the  very  day  had  dawned, 
— Friedrich  had  poured  forth  his  heart  earnestly 
at  the  throne  of  mercy  : — '  Lord,  I  am  in  thy 
hands:  provide  for  me  as  thou  best  knowest 
how.' 

The  sun  shone  bright  and  warm ;  spangles  of 
dew  hung  and  sparkled  on  every  leaf  and  flow- 
er ;  fleecy  mist-clouds  rose  upwards  from  the 
valley,  and  reflected  the  light  of  the  sun  ;  the 
curate's  poodle  ran  bounding  on  and  barked; 
and  the  scholars  went  on,  laughing  and  talking. 
A  whole  day  of  sunshine  and  freedom  was  be- 
fore them ;  for  it  was  the  established  rule  of 
these  rambles  that  the  whole  day,  from  morning 
to  night,  was  to  be  spent  under  the  free  heavens ; 
nor  were  they  once  to  enter  under  a  roof;  and 
for  this  reason  a  certain  number  of  the  elder,  or 
Latin  class,  carried  with  them  whatever  was 
needful  for  the  day's  sustenance :  that  which 
they  required  from  nature  on  her  side  was  a 
shady  tree,  a  spring  of  water,  dry  wood,  and  a 
place  in  which  to  make  a  fire. 

The  eldest  scholar  carried,  in  a  sort  of  quiver 
on  his  back,  two  Cologne  pipes,  with  a  bag  filled 
with  fine  tobacco  swung  from  his  button-hole  ; 
while  the  tinder-box  and  matches  were  stowed 
away  in  his  trowsers'-pockets.  His  brother  was 
laden,  on  his  part,  with  a  copper  kettle,  the 
three-legged  stand  for  which,  tied  to  a  string,  he 
carried  in  his  hand,  and  from  which,  with  a 
brass  ladle,  he  drew  .sounds  rather  loud   than 


THE  FAVORITE  SCHOLAR.  19 

harmonious.  No,  3  carried  a  piece  of  beef, 
which  his  mother  the  butcher's  wife,  had  sent, 
wrapped  in  cabbage  leaves,  and  tied  in  a  napkin  ; 
and  here  it  may  be  remarked,  that  after  the  dog 
had  once  got  scent  of  this  bag,  he  never  after- 
wards left  his  side.  A  fourth  boy  carried  the 
manchet  bread  and  the  milk  cakes  ;  all  which 
however  were  put  into  a  bag,  tied  by  the  Curate 
with  a  gordian  knot,  in  order  that  he  might  be 
out  of  the  way  of  temptation.  No.  5  might  be 
supposed  to  be  carrying  eggs,  so  carefully  did 
he  walk  along  with  the  basket  which  he  held  on 
his  arm.  Eggs  however  he  had  not,  but  a 
coffee  service,  which  his  grandmother  had  lent 
for  the  day,  and  the  care  of  which  she  had  laid 
upon  his  conscience.  No.  6  carried  a  bell- 
shaped  coffee-pot,  which  served  its  bearer  as  an 
instrument  on  which  to  accompany  No.  2.  To 
Friedrich  was  nothing  entrusted,  excepting  '  Fal- 
kenstein's  Chronicle,'  because,  as  his  friend  the 
Curate  remarked,  he  was  fit  for  nothing  but 
books. 

Off  they  went ;  and  our  friendly  young  reader 
must  be  so  good  as  to  go  with  them,  over  hills 
and  through  valleys,  six  miles  at  least,  to  the 
village  Fosse. 

This  place  had  its  name  from  the  canal  by 
which,  as  is  well  kno\vn,  Charlemagne  intended 
to  unite  the  two  great  rivers  of  his  kingdom,  the 
Rhine  and  the  Danube.  Of  this  magnificent 
attempt,  this  Fosse,  or  ditch,  is  all  that  remaina 


20  THE    FAVORITE    SCHOLAR. 

The  scholars  came  to  a  stand  under  two  pine- 
trees  by  a  fish-pond  near  the  edge  of  the  Fosse ; 
nor  was  it  very  long  before  they  had  a  good  fire 
burning,  above  which  was  placed  the  brass  ket- 
tle, and  within  it  that  handsome  round  of  beef, 
which  had  made  the  arm  of  the  butcher's  son 
ache  with  carrying. 

'  You,'  said  the  Curate,  well  pleased,  to  one 
of  his  scholars,  '  must  skim  the  broth ;  and  you,' 
added  he,  fixing  his  eye  on  Friedrich,  '  must 
take  care  that  no  carp  leaps  out  of  the  pond  into 
the  kettle.' 

'  Yes,  certainly,'  answered  poor  Friedrich,  who 
was  deeply  thinking  on  Charlemagne  and  the 
village  Fosse  ;  and  all  his  companions  laughed 
in  chorus. 

Meantime,  a  deputation  of  boys,  who  had 
been  sent  to  the  next  village,  with  an  invitation 
from  the  Curate  to  the  school-master,  returned, 
bringing  him  with  them,  and  bringing  also  a 
quantity  of  plates  and  knives  and  forks,  which 
they  had  been  ordered  to  borrow  from  his  wife. 

The  dinner  which  was  very  well  cooked,  con- 
sisted of  two  courses ;  white  bread-soup,  and 
boiled  beef.  A  better  dinner  need  not  have  been 
set  before  a  king  : — but,  alas  !  at  the  moment  ot 
eating,  it  was  discovered  that  the  mustard  was 
forgotten,  and  instead  thereof  the  Curate's  poma- 
tum-pot had  been  brought ! 

After  dinner  the  discourse  naturally  turned  on 
the  Fossa  Carolina,  or  Charlemagne's  Ditch ; 


The  Favorite  Scholar  — Page  20 


THE  FAVORITB  SCHOLAR.         21 

and  the  village  school-master  told  its  story  in 
the  following  n^anner  : — 

'  In  the  year  of  our  Lord  793,  Charlemagne, 
being  at  peace  with  all  his  enemies,  betook  him- 
self to  Eichstadt,  where  Winifred,  or  Bonifacius, 
the  apostle  of  the  Germans,  had  created  a  bish- 
op's see.  In  those  days  the  vast  forests  swarm- 
ed with  wild  bulls,  enormous  moose-deer,  and 
bears  ;  and  powerful  hunters  came  from  far  and 
near  to  hunt  in  the  old  woods.  Charlemagne 
also,  who  was  a  lover  of  the  chase,  went  often 
forth  a-hunting  from  the  little  convent  of  St. 
Willibald,  where  he  had  taken  up  his  abode. 

'  One  day,  after  he  had  dmed  in  the  convent 
from  his  favorite  dish  of  roast  venison,  and  had 
enjoyed  a  little  after-dinner  nap,  he  went  out 
with  the  fat  prior  upon  the  walls  with  which, 
for  its  better  security,  the  convent  was  surround- 
ed, in  order  to  enjoy  the  fresh  air  and  the  fine 
prospect. 

'  And  it  was  a  magnificent  prospect  that 
Charlemagne  had  from  the  convent  walls.  North, 
south,  east,  and  west,  he  saw  his  kingdom 
stretching  before  him ;  and  then  was  it  that  he 
first  formed  the  grand  idea  of  uniting  the  two 
ends  of  his  realm,  and  thus  opening  a  safe  high- 
way for  traffic. 

'  The  good  prior  strengthened  the  king's  idea, 
but  not  indeed  because  he  cared  about  trade  and 
traffic,  but  because  there  stood  just  opposite  to 
the  convent,  upon  a  point  of  the  hills,  in  the 


22         THE  FAVORITE  SCHOLAR. 

very  middle  of  the  marsh,  a  heathen  temple. 
To  be  sure,  it  had  then  no  longer  its  priests,  nor 
was  any  regular  worship  or  sacrifice  performed 
there ;  yet  still  it  k^pt  alive  many  a  dark  and 
fearful  superstition.  The  prior,  to  whom  this 
temple  was  as  a  thorn  in  the  eye,  turned  now 
the  king's  attention  to  it,  well  knowing  that  the 
defender  of  the  church  could,  if  he  would,  re- 
move an  idol  temple,  even  of  the  greatest  an- 
tiquity. 

'  With  Charlemagne,  the  doing  of  a  thing 
followed  its  resolve,  as  quickly  and  surely  as  the 
thunder  follows  the  lightning  ;  therefore  the 
cutting  of  the  great  canal  was  commenced  im- 
mediately. The  convent  of  St.  Willibald,  which 
was  as  well  placed  for  this  work  as  for  the  chase, 
was  made  its  head-quarters,  and  the  people  for 
twelve  miles  round  were  summoned  to  labor  at 
the  great  undertaking. 

'  In  the  beginning  all  went  on  well.  The  la- 
borers, who  were  serfs,  or  slaves  of  the  soil, 
came  to  it  with  the  greatest  readiness.  Many 
and  many  had  never  seen  the  great  Frank-King, 
and  seized  now  with  joy  the  opportunity  of  be- 
holding him  face  to  face ;  others  feared  his  heavy 
hand  and  his  sharp  sword ;  others,  again,  had 
fought  under  his  banner,  and  pressed  to  come 
forward  once  more  into  his  presence.  The  sea- 
son and  the  weather  were  the  most  favorable  in 
the  world,  and  the  soil,  which  was  clay  and  sand, 
was  very  easy  to  work.     In  three  weeks'  time 


THE    FAVORITE    SCHOLAR.  23 

the  canal  had  advanced  to  the  state  in  which  it 
now  is. 

'  Charlemagne,  in  the  joy  of  his  work,  had 
quite  forgotten  the  good  prior's  heathen  temple. 
One  evening  however,  as  he  was  riding  home 
to  the  convent,  within  sight  of  the  place,  a  sun- 
beam streamed  from  an  opening  in  the  evening 
clouds,  and  lighted  it  up.  Charlemagne  thought 
of  his  promise  to  the  prior  to  have  this  abomina- 
tion removed.  He  blamed  himself,  as  for  a  sin, 
that  he  had  neglected  spiritual  for  temporal 
things;  and  gave  orders  that  on  the  next  day  the 
laborers,  instead  of  working  in  the  Fosse,  should 
go  and  level  to  the  very  ground  this  place  of 
offence  to  the  good  monks. 

'  On  the  evening  of  the  next  day,  accordingly, 
nothing  remained  in  the  place  but  overturned 
stones ;  part  of  which  are  now  sunk  into  the 
marsh,  and  others  have  served  in  later  years  for 
foundation  and  corner-stones  of  the  village  and 
church  which  sprung  up  there. 

'  The  king  however  had  lost  the  hearts  of  the 

Seople  by  thus  demolishing  the  old  temple, 
lost  of  them,  although  baptised,  were  nothing 
but  ignorant  heathens,  and  were  as  much  annoy- 
ed by  this  sudden  destruction  of  their  temple,  as 
the  people  of  old,  who  said  to  Joas,  '  Give  us 
thy  son,  that  he  may  die  ;  inasmuch  as  he  has 
broken  down  the  altar  of  Baal,  and  has  hewn 
down  the  grove  thereof.'     In  order  therefore  lo 


24         THE  FAVORITE  SCHOLAR. 

revenge  themselves,  they  resolved  not  again  i<i 
work  at  the  Fosse. 

•  The  next  morning  therefore  a  messenger 
came  to  the  king  in  St.  Willibald's  convent, 
with  the  tidings  that  the  overseer  of  the  work 
stood  alone  in  the  Fosse  ;  the  laborers  had  all 
vanished  in  the  night,  like  storks  in  autumn. 
The  king  had  no  army  with  him  at  that  time 
with  which  to  drive  the  disobedient  forth  from 
their  glens,  their  woods,  and  their  hiding-places, 
and  before  he  could  arrange  any  mode  of  com- 
pulsion he  was  called  away  to  chastise  the  in- 
surgent Saxons.' 

Here  the  schoolmaster  was  interrupted  by  the 
return  of  the  scholars,  who  had  been  in  search 
of  wood  to  make  up  the  fire  for  the  preparation 
of  coffee  ;  and  with  them,  to  the  surprise  of  the 
Curate  and  his  friend,  came  two  strangers,  a 
gentleman  and  lady,  who  were  in  deep  mourn- 
ing, and  whose  appearance  was  that  of  people  of 
wealth  and  condition.  Their  countenances  were 
amiable  and  kind,  but  expressive  of  a  deep  mel- 
ancholy ;  they  seemed  like  persons  who  had  lost 
some  beloved  friend,  and  were  upon  a  journey 
which  should  remove  them  from  the  neighbor- 
hood where  everything  reminded  them  of  their 
loss. 

The  Curate  received  them  in  the  most  friend- 
ly manner,  and  invited  them  to  spend  an  hour 
with  him  and  his  wandering  school,  and  to  be 
pleased  to  drink  a  cup  of  the  coffee,  which  his 


THE  FAVORITE  SCHOLAR.  25 

Latin  Cooks  should  instantly  prepare.     The  in- 
vitation was  thankfully  accepted. 

The  gentlemen  filled  and  lighted  their  pipes, 
and  the  lady,  by  her  own  choice,  busied  herself 
in  assisting  the  boys  in  the  preparation  of  the 
coffee.  Better  coffee  never  was  presented  to  a 
select  company  of  ladies.  But  ah  !  the  white 
sugar  which  had  been  brought  put  them  all  into 
the  utmost  perplexity.  Friedrich,  instead  of 
sugar,  had  given  out  a  quantity  of  broken  ala- 
baster, which,  a  short  time  before,  had  been  col- 
lected in  a  quarry,  and  now  lay  in  the  Curate's 
cupboard.  The  error  was  rather  excusable,  be- 
cause broken  alabaster  resembled  broken  white 
sugar.  But  who  can  tell  the  shame  and  morti- 
fication of  poor  Friedrich  !  The  apothecary's 
Michaelmas  goose,  the  salted  gingerbread,  and 
the  embittered  sausages,  seemed  at  once  to  fly 
in  his  face.  He  could  have  cried  with  humilia- 
tion. And  then,  what  was  to  be  done  ?  Must 
they  all  drink  their  coffee,  like  the  Arabs  in  the 
desert,  without  sugar,  and  that  through  his 
fault  ?  He  sate  with  downcast  eyes,  and  said 
not  a  word  in  his  own  excuse.  Fortunately 
however  for  him,  at  the  very  moment  when  he 
heard  the  whispered  jeering  of  his  school-com- 
panions around  him,  the  kind-hearted  strangers 
set  all  right  by  declaring  that  they  had  a  good 
store  of  sugar-candy  in  their  travelling-carriage, 
a  short  distance  off.  To  Friedrich  they  seemed 
like  angels  from  heaven. 


26         THE  FAVORITE  SCHOLAR. 

A  short  quarter  of  an  hour  set  all  right,  and 
the  lady  graciously  declared  that  the  coffee  was 
only  the  clearer  for  standing  so  long, 

'  Friedrich,'  said  the  Curate,  anxious  to  rein- 
state his  poor  favorite  in  the  good  opinion  of  his 
guests,  and  at  the  same  time  meaning  to  incul- 
cate a  moral  lesson  to  the  boys,  who  still  jeered 
him  about  his  stone-sugar,  '  come  here ;  canst 
thou  not  tell  us  something  for  our  entertainment  ? ' 

Friedrich  rose  up,  blushed,  and  looked  round 
the  company. 

'  Thou  canst  tell  us  that  which  the  Miller's 
George  did  when  his  enemy  threw  a  cherry- 
stone at  him,  canst  thou  not  ? '  asked  the  Cu- 
rate. 

Friedrich  bowed,  and,  turning  himself  towards 
the  strangers,  began  as  follows  : — '  The  Miller's 
George  sate  one  Sunday  evening  upon  the 
bench  by  the  door,  learning  out  of  his  prayer- 
book.  It  was  always  very  difficult  for  George 
to  learn ;  and  for  that  reason  he  learnt  every 
thing  aloud,  which  drew  upon  him  the  ridicule 
of  his  school  companions.  Just  at  that  moment 
there  came  up  to  him  one  of  his  young  persecu- 
tors, the  constable's  son  Hans,  and  threw  a 
cherry-stone  at  his  eye,  which  hurt  him  very 
much.  George  however  took  no  notice,  but  re- 
mained sitting  on  the  bench  ;  and  only  said  to 
himself,  '  What  pain  it  gives  me  !  If  I  had  no 
eye-lids  to  my  eyes,  like  the  carp  in  my  father's 
mill  dam,  it  would  have  knocked  my  eye  out ! ' 


THE    FAVORITE    SCHOLAR.  27 

He  then  took  up  the  cherry-stone,  examined  it 
on  this  side  and  on  that,  and  put  it  in  his  waist- 
coat pocket.  After  that  he  went  on  learning ; 
and  the  lesson  which  he  was  driving  into  his 
head  was  this  : — '  And  since  we  daily  sin  greatly, 
and  deserve  punishment,  ought  we  not,  on  our 
part,  hearitly  to  forgive,  and  be  willing  to  do 
good  to  those  that  sin  againt  us  ? '  and  all  the 
time  he  was  learning  it,  he  was  obliged  to  keep 
wiping  away  the  water  which  ran  from  his  eye 
with  his  shirt  sleeve. 

'  Eight  days  after  this,  as  he  was  feeling  in 
his  pocket,  he  found  the  cherry-stone  ;  and  he 
thought  to  himself,  that  that  was  not  the  best 
way  of  keeping  it,  so  he  went  into  the  garden 
and  set  it  like  a  bean,  in  the  soil  near  the  gar- 
den hedge  ;  and,  as  it  generally  happens  with 
seed  when  it  is  sown,  the  kernel  of  the  cherry- 
stone' shot  forth,  and  sprang  up,  and  grew  a  foot 
in  height  every  year.  One  day  George  looked 
at  it,  and  bent  it  this  way  and  that ;  and  '  Now,' 
said  he  to  himself,  '  if  I  let  it  grow  on  just  as  it 
pleases,  it  will  be  no  better  than  the  constable's 
Hans,  who,  everybody  says,  is  wilder  than  an 
unbroken  colt.'  So  he  fetched  the  schoolmaster, 
who  understood  how  to  manage  this  as  well  as 
children,  and  asked  him  to  look  at  his  young 
cherry-tree.  The  schoolmaster  directly  cut  off 
all  the  wild  shoots,  and  grafted  upon  the  stock 
the  real  great-heart  cherry.  After  this  the  tree 
grew  and  grew,  and  all  the  nobler  shoots  spread 


28         THE  FAVOEITE  SCHOLAR. 

themselves  high  and  wide,  till  the  tree  was  larg- 
er and  finer  than  any  in  the  garden. 

'  Anybody  who  had  not  seen  it  for  twenty 
years,  would  no  more  have  known  it  than  they 
would  have  known  the  Miller's  George  himself. 
Very  handsome  and  richly  ornamented  were 
they  both,  on  a  certain  Sunday  evening,  as  they 
stood  together ;  the  tree  with  its  thousands  of 
leaves  and  abundant  crimson  fruit,  and  he  with 
manly  beauty,  and  grace,  and  joy,  in  his  coun- 
tenance. Nor  were  either  of  them  known  again 
by  a  man  who  crept  along  under  the  garden 
hedge,  as  if  he  feared  to  show  himself  again  in 
that  village.  The  Miller's  George  however 
knew  this  prodigal  son,  in  the  torn  coat  and 
worn-out  shoes,  to  be  no  other  than  his  old 
enemy  the  constable's  Hans  ;  but  he  behaved 
just  as  if  he  knew  him  not,  and  called  him  to 
his  garden  gate.  '  Friend,'  said  he,  '  you  are 
weary,  and  hungry,  and  thirsty ;  come  and  sit 
under  my  tree,  and  I  will  give  you  bread  to  eat, 
and  wine  to  drink,  and  then  you  shall  proceed 
on  your  journey.' 

*  Hans  knew  the  voice ;  he  saw  where  he  was ; 
and,  with  tears  in  his  eyes — tears  of  repentance 
and  remorse — sate  down  under  the  tree,  and, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  earnestly  prayed 
God  to  forgive  him.' 

When  Friedrich  had  ended  his  story,  the 
stranger  gentleman  commended  it  greatly,  but 
the  lady  said  nothing ;  tears  were  rapidly  chas- 


THE  FAVORITE  SCHOLAR.         29 

ing  each  other  down  her  cheeks.  The  gentle- 
man, who  knew  very  well  the  cause  of  his  wife's 
tears,  and  that  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
story  she  had  just  heard,  inquired  from  the  boy 
if  he  could  not  relate  something  more  to  them. 
Friedrich,  who,  on  finishing  his  former  story, 
had  withdrawn  to  his  place  among  the  boys,  at 
a  hint  from  the  Curate,  again  approached ;  and 
wishing  to  say  something  which  should  be  ap- 
plicable to  the  lady  who  wept,  and  was  in 
mourning,  he  bowed,  and  began,  in  a  low  voice, 
as  follows : — 

'  Once  upon  a  time,  a  mother  went  over  the 
sea  in  a  little  boat,  towards  her  home  in  Heligo- 
land ;  and  her  thoughts  travelled  far  quicker 
than  her  boat  in  the  moonlight.  But  the  little 
daughter  that  lay  in  her  lap  did  not  let  the 
mother  dream  long  about  home,  but  pointed  be- 
tween the  fluttering  sails  up  to  Heaven,  and 
said, — '  Eh  !  what  large  glow-worms  are  raining 
down  from  the  stars  ;  if  they  would  only  fall  on 
the  deck,  instead  of  into  the  sea,  I  would  take 
them  with  me,  and  lay  them  under  the  rose- 
bushes in  our  garden,  when  we  get  home.' 

'  But  that  little  maiden  was  weak  in  health, 
and  never  again  was  to  see  her  earthly  home. 
Her  mother  sighed,  and  said  to  her, — '  They 
are  not  glow-worms  that  thou  seest  falling  there: 
and  beyond  the  stars  there  lies  a  great  and  most 
beautiful  garden ;  God  himself  has  planted  it, 
and  holy  angels  are  its  guardians ;  and  many 


30         THE  FAVORITE  SCHOLAR. 

times  they  come  down  to  the  earth,  and  fetch 
up  there  the  spirits  of  children  Avho  die,  that 
they  may  grow  up  there,  and  joyfully  wait  there 
till  their  fathers  and  mothers  join  them.  The 
trees  in  that  garden  bear  twelve  times  in  the 
year  golden  apples,  juicy  as  peaches,  and  more 
fragrant  than  strawberries ;  and  the  trees  there 
are  never  yellow  and  leafless,  as  with  us,  but 
always  bear  leaves  and  fruits  and  flowers.  The 
trees  however  are  very  tall,  and  the  children 
cannot  reach  the  apples;  the  angels  therefore 
that  fly  past,  come  and  shake  the  branches,  and 
the  apples  fall  on  the  velvet-green  grass  below. 
And  sometimes,  if  the  angels  be  not  very  careful, 
they  strike  down  the  snowy  flowers  with  their 
wings  ;  and  then  it  happens  sometimes  that  the 
evening  wind  blows  them  over  the  garden-wall 
down  to  the  earth.  But  then  they  do  not  re- 
main long,  but  fade  away  like  the  rose-tint  from 
thy  cheek,  my  poor  child  ! ' 

'  The  little  ship  in  awhile  ended  its  voyage, 
and  the  mother  stepped  on  the  shore  of  her  na- 
tive Heligoland.  Behind  her  they  carried  out 
of  the  ship  a  little  chest  of  ebony  wood.  It  con- 
tained— not  rubies  nor  pearls,  nor  fine  linen  nor 
purple  ;  but  something  more  precious  than  all 
these — the  bones  of  the  dead  child.' 

Friedrich's  voice  trembled  as  he  spoke  the 
last  words,  for  he  was  thinking  of  his  own 
mother's  funeral,  and,  glancing  round,  he  saw 


THE  FAVORITE  SCHOLAR.  31 

that  the  Curate  shook  his  head,  and  that  the 
lady  was  weeping  more  than  ever. 

'  I  have  done  something  wrong  again  !  I  have 
made  another  mistake  ! '  thought  poor  Friedrich, 
and  stole  back  to  his  seat  among  the  boys. 

'  My  wife,'  said  the  stranger  gentleman,  draw- 
ing the  Curate  aside,  '  weeps  for  our  son,  our 
only  child.  It  is  but  eight  days  since  his  re- 
mains were  laid  in  the  churchyard  of  St.  John's, 
in  our  city.  This  very  autumn  he  was  to  have 
entered  the  class  which  I  teach  as  rector  of  the 
Gymnasium  in  Niirnberg.' 

At  these  words  of  the  stranger,  the  Curate, 
and  the  village  schoolmaster  who  had  approach- 
ed them,  stood  in  astonishment,  and  began  to 
emulate  each  other  in  showing  their  respect  to 
so  celebrated  and  distinguished  a  man.  He  re- 
ceived their  demonstrations  of  regard  with  a 
grateful  pressure  of  the  hand,  and  motioning 
them  to  resume  their  seats,  one  on  each  side  of 
him,  continued  thus  : — 

'  Yes,  my  Friedrich  was  a  son — I  can  say  it 
now  as  a  father — like  which  the  world  has  but 
few.  He  occasioned  me  none  of  the  disagreeables 
which  the  instruction  of  an  only  son  often  brings 
with  it.  Peace  and  quietness  were  his  element; 
the  library  his  world.  Love  to  God,  humility, 
and  willingness  to  be  useful  to  his  fellow-crea- 
tures, were  the  marked  features  of  his  character. 
He  could  already  anticipate  the  pleasure  of  mak- 
ing a  figure  in   the  learned  world,  for  he  had 


32         THE  FAVOEITE  SCHOLAR. 

advanced  far  in  knowledge.'  He  paused  a  few 
seconds,  and  then  continued  : — *  After  all  that  1 
have  seen  and  heard,  in  this  short  time,  of  your 
dear  young  scholar  Friedrich  there,  he  seems  to 
me  the  prototype  of  my  lost  son — in  size,  and 
'voice,  and  in  mind,  which  speaks  in  looks  and 
actions.  All  this  reminds  my  wife  livingly  of 
her  loss.' 

'  And  yet,  at  the  same  time,'  interrupted  the 
lady,  '  this  great  resemblance  consoles  me ;  and 
I  should  be  greatly  obliged  to  my  husband's 
friend,  if  he  would  allow  his  young  pupil  to 
pass  a  few  days  of  the  just  now  commenced 
midsummer  vacation  with  us  in  Niirnberg.  The 
ink  in  my  son's  writing-desk  is  not  yet  dry ;  his 
pen  lies  as  he  laid  it  last  out  of  his  hand ;  his 
chair  stands  as  he  left  it  when  he  pushed  it  back 
and  rose,  complaining  to  me  of  that  headache 
which  ended  in  his  being  removed  from  us. 
Dear  youth,'  said  she,  turning  to  Friedrich, 
whom  the  Curate  had  beckoned  forward,  '  will 
not  you  pass  at  least  a  few  weeks  in  this  little 
chamber,  that  it  may  become  again  pleasant  to 
me  ;  that  therein,  once  more,  a  being  may  dwell, 
of  whom  I  may  ask,  now  and  then,  as  I  did  from 
my  good  Fritz,  '  How  is  it  with  thee  ? ' ' 

Friedrich  and  the  Curate  both  had  tears  in 
their  eyes,  and  were  both  of  them  about  to  an- 
swer when  one  of  his  school  companions  started 
forward  and  said, — '  O,  gracious  lady,  yes !  He 
will  go  with  you,  without  doubt.     The  apothe- 


THB    FAVORITE    SCHOLAR.  33 

caiy,  the  gingerbread-baker,  and  the  butcher 
liave  all  tried  him ;  but  he  was  good  for  nothing; 
he  will  be  glad  to  go  with  you  ! ' 

The  Curate  gave  the  boy  a  box  on  his  ear  for 
his  pains,  and  then  began  to  explain  to  the  good 
rector  and  his  lady  the  exact  situation  of  his 
young  favorite.  '  If,'  concluded  he,  '  you  have 
compassion  on  this  poor  orphan,  and  will  give  to 
him,  even  in  the  lowest  degree,  the  place  of  your 
deceased  son,  in  house  and  heart,  then  will  the 
Lord  have  heard  the  prayer  which  I  this  morn- 
ing put  up  on  his  behalf ! ' 

'  May  I  then,  wholly  and  for  ever,  take  him 
to  myself  ? '  asked  the  stranger. 

The  Curate  assented,  adding  that  it  was  the 
Lord  who  had  provided  for  him. 

'  Now  then,  my  son,'  said  the  stranger,  ad- 
dressing Friedrich,  '  follow  us.  All  that  I  ask 
from  you  is  love  to  God,  love  to  me  and  to  your 
second  mother,  and  love  for  learning.' 

Friedrich  laid  his  hands  in  those  of  his  newly 
adopted  parents,  and  wished  to  say  something 
which  might  express  his  thanks,  but  he  could 
only  say,  in  a  voice  scarcely  audible,  '  Lord,  I 
am  not  worthy  of  the  love  and  kindness  which 
thou  hast  shown  to  me,  thy  poor  servant  !' 

The  friendly  young  reader  can  now  imagine 

the  rest ;   can  imagine  how  the  good  Niirnberg- 

ers  agreed  to  pass  a  few  days  with  the  friendly 

Curate  at  Pappetiheim ;   and  furthermore,  can 

3 


34         THE  FAVORITE  SCHOLAR. 

imagine  how,  on  the  fourth  day,  they  set  off, 
Friedrich  sitting  between  his  foster-parents  in 
their  large  family  chaise.  The  roads  in  those 
days  were  not  as  good  as  they  are  now,  and 
travellers  had  to  encounter  marshes  and  sands, 
flats  and  rocks,  of  which  people  now-a-days 
know  nothing ;  but,  for  all  that,  the  reader  can 
imagine  how  the  rector's  strong  horses  drew 
them  merrily  onwards  ;  and  how,  on  the  even- 
ing of  the  third  day  of  their  journey,  they  ar- 
rived safely  at  their  home  in  the  old  city  of 
Niirnberg. 


'NUMBER  ONE.- 


BT  MSB.  8.  0.  HATiT. 


HEN  Hector  Howard  was  born, 
there  was  great  joy  among 
all  the  inmates  of  Howard 
Place, — his  father  ordered 
an  ox  to  be  roasted  whole 
on  the  village  green,  and 
the  villagers,  who  were  his 
tenants  and  servants,  made  a 
huge  'bonfire '  on  the  top  of  the  hill ;  the  bells 
rang  merrily,  and  old  and  young  danced  and 
sung  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 

Mr.  Howard  was  charmed  that '  Number  One,' 
as  he  called  the  infant,  was  a  boy,  and  at  his 
christening  the  festivities  were  renewed  with  still 
more  boisterous  manifestations  of  delight.  Mrs 
Howard,  a  kind,  gentle  woman,  of  course  loved 
her  little  son,  and  thought  that  when  his  nurse 
pronounced  him  to  be  a  perfect  beauty  (hav- 
ing father's  hair,  mother's  eyes,  and  grandmoth- 
er's mouth),  she  hardly  did  him  justice.  Hector 
was  certainly  a  very  pretty  baby,  and,  more- 


36  'NUMBER    ONE.' 

over,  good  tempered  and  cheerful ;  but  moth- 
ers and- nurses,  by  over  fondness,  sometimes 
spoil  their  little  treasures,  and  a  '  Number  One' 
is  usually  placed  in  a  position  of  more  than  or- 
dinary peril. 

When  Hector  was  eighteen  months  old,  he 
was  a  very  fine  fellow  indeed,  strong,  and  would 
have  been  healthy,  had  not  his  nurse  indulged 
him  by  giving  him  sweet  cakes  and  sugar- 
plums- whenever  he  cried  for  them.  This  was 
unfortunate  both  for  him  and  his  nurse,  as  it  dis- 
ordered his  stomach  and  rendered  him  so  fret- 
ful and  impatient,  that  he  would  whine  by  the 
hour,  and,  if  asleep,  instead  of  looking  rosy, 
and  remaining  quiet,  he  would  toss  his  arms 
about,  while  his  lips  and  hands  were  so  hot  and 
feverish,  that,  when  his  tender  parents  sent  for 
the  doctor,  the  doctor  said  he  must  have  had 
improper  food  ;  and  Nurse,  very  wickedly,  did 
not  tell  him  all  she  had  given  the  baby.  When 
persons  do  what  is  wrong,  they  are  frequently 
so  cowardly  as  to  conceal  it ;  whereas  if  they 
were  to  tell  all  the  truth,  the  mischief  might  be 
remedied.  In  this  case,  if  the  doctor  had  known 
that  the  greedy  baby  had  devoured  two  heart- 
cakes,  a  half -ripe  pear,  and  a  roll  of  pink-and- 
yellow  sugar-plums  during  his  airing  in  the 
park,  he  could  have  relieved  his  sufferings  much 
looner  than  he  did ;  and  I  must  say,  I  think 
Nurse  deserved  to  lose,  as  she  did  lose,  several 
nights'  rest  in  eonsequenee. 


'NUMBER    ONE.'  37 

When  Hector  g^rew  older,  from  crying  for 
cakes  and  sugar-plums,  he  went  on  to  cry  for 
everything- he  wished  for;  and,  if  it  were  not 
immediately  given  him,  would  become  violent. 
His  dear  mother  was  in  delicate  health,  and 
could  not  endure  noise  or  agitation  of  any 
kind  ;  if  she  had  been  well,  I  am  sure  she  lov- 
ed '  Number  One^  too  truly  to  have  indulged 
him  as  his  nurse  did. 

At  five  years  old,  having  neither  brother  nor 
sister,  he  was  still  Number  '  One,'  and,  unfortu- 
nately, constantly  heard  the  nurse  saying  that, 
'Indeed  Master  Hector  was  an  only  child,  and 
must  not  be  contradicted,  for  his  life  was  of 
great  consequence  to  the  family;'  and  the  ser- 
vants endured  his  violence  and  rudeness,  rather 
than  hazard  the  displeasure  of  the  nurse,  who 
petted  and  spoiled  the  '  Young  Master'  in  a 
shameful  way  ;  and  as  her  mistress  suffered  so 
much  from  ill  health,  she  was  out  of  the  way  of 
seeing  or  hearing,  except  what  the  nurse  chose 
to  tell  her;  and  one  servant,  who  ventured  to  tell 
Master  Hector  he  was  a  very  naughty  boy,  be- 
cause he  threw  a  tumbler  of  water  in  her  face, 
received  warning  a  few  days  after,  and  was  not 
permitted  to  speak  to  her  mistress. 

Children,  who  are  prevented  by  the  care  and 
watchfulness  of  their  parents  from  contracting 
bad  habits,  can  never  be  sufficiently  grateful  to 
God  for  his  goodness  in  having  given  them  such 
sensible  protectors.       AFi    Howard  was  a  -nxeAl 


33  'NUMBER    ONE.' 

deal  from  home.  He  was  a  magistrate  and  a 
tnomber  of  Parliament ;  and  seldom  say/  Hector 
but  when  dressed  not  only  in  his  best  clothes, 
but  his  best  manners, — generally,  when  brought 
in  after  dinner,  in  a  handsome  velvet  tunic,  his 
fair  hair  curling  abundantly  over  his  shoulders, 
and  then  he  was  niuch  admired  by  whatever 
company  happened  to  be  at  the  Place,  and  as 
he  had  no  brothers  nor  sisters,  nor  even  little 
cousins,  to  divide  the  caresses  of  the  ladies  and 
gentlemen  who  were  assembled  round  the  ta- 
ble, he  grew  at  length  to  think  that  no  one  else 
in  the  world  had  a  right  to  receive  them,  or  to 
partake  of  the  dessert  so  thoughtlessly  heaped 
upon  his  plate. 

It  chanced  that  a  lady  was  dining  one  day  at 
Howard  Place,  who  possessed  a  very  beautiful 
dog ;  Mrs.  Howard  had  heard  so  much  of  the 
dog's  beauty,  that  she  had  requested  her  to  bring 
it  with  her,  and  the  lady  did  so.  It  was  re- 
markably small,  having  long  silken  hair ;  and  its 
little  limbs  were  so  slender  and  delicate,  that  it 
would  run  along  the  dining-table,  in  and  out, 
amid  the  wine  glasses,  without  upsetting  any 
thing  or  doing  any  injury  whatever.  This  a- 
mused  the  company  a  great  deal,  and  no  one 
seemed  more  amused  than  Hector.  He  clapped 
his  hands  with  delight,  and  kissed  the  long  ears 
and  tiny  paws  of  the  dog  over  and  over  again. 

The  little  animal  had  run  once  round  the  ta- 
ble in  this  manner,  and  had  got  as  far  as  where 


•number  one.'  39 

Hector  sat,  on  its  second  round,  when  it  sudden- 
ly made  a  pause  at  his  plate,  looking  wist- 
fully at  a  piece  of  cake  he  was  eating  ivith  an 
eagerness  that  is  exceedingly  ill-bred  as  well  as 
unhealthy.  I  dare  say  the  little  dog  had  been 
as  much  accustomed  to  consider  every  thing  it 
saw  made  for  its  own  especial  use,  as  the  little 
boy.  At  all  events,  putting  its  paw  into  Hector's 
plate,  it  seized,  and  as  quickly  swallowed,  the 
largest  piece  of  his  favorite  cake.  I  really  am 
ashamed  to  tell  you  how  a  boy  could  have  shown 
such  selfish  violence ;  no  one  present  could  a- 
void  seeing  that  it  must  have  been  of  long 
growth,  to  have  acquired  such  strength.  In  an 
instant  the  face,  which  before  had  been  so  joy- 
ous and  lovely  to  look  upon,  became  frightful 
from  selfish  disappointment  and  revenge,  and  in- 
stead of  laughing  at  the  little  dog's  trick,  and 
rejoicing  that  he  was  able  to  return  pleasure,  for 
the  pleasure  the  animal's  dexterity  and  beauty 
had  afforded  him,  he  dealt  it  a  violent  blow, 
which  flung  it  against  a  claret  decanter,  that 
rolled  off  the  table  into  a  lady's  lap,  but  which 
she  was  kind  enough  to  say  was  of  little  conse- 
quence. The  little  dog  was  not  only  stunned 
by  the  blow,  but  its  head  was  severely  wounded 
in  several  places  by  the  sharp  edges  of  the  de- 
canter, and  one  eye  was  so  injured,  that  it  could 
not  be  opened  for  several  days.  Mrs.  Howard 
was  greatly  shocked  at  her  son's  conduct ;  and 
while  Hector  endeavored  to  justify  himself,  by 


40  *  NUMBEK    ONE.' 

exclaiming — 'He  eat  my  cake  ! — how  dare  he 
eat  my  favorite  cake?' — liis  father  carried  him 
forcibly  out  of  the  room,  and  locking  him  up  in 
a  closet,  put  the  key  into  his  pocket,  determin- 
ed, when  the  violence  of  the  child's  temper  was 
abated,  to  show  him  how  wickedly  he  had  act- 
ed ;  and,  in  the  mean  time,  to  deliberate  upon 
the  best  means  of  punishing  his  offence,  and 
checking  so  selfish  a  disposition,  which,  of  all 
others,  causes  us  to  be  most  hated  byour  fellow- 
creatures,  and  leaves  us  in  the  evening  of  life 
without  friends.  When  Nurse  heard  of  her  dar- 
ling's dissfrace,  instead  of  leaving  him,  as  she 
ought  to  have  done,  to  his  father's  management, 
she  went  to  the  window  of  the  closet,  told  him 
not  to  cry,  gave  him  a  piece  of  cake,  and  said 
there  was  great  comfort  for  him  in  knowing  that 
the  little  dog,  which  had  caused  him  all  this 
trouble,  was  so  much  hurt  that  it  was  obliged  to 
have  the  doctor.  Now,  can  you  imagine  any 
thing  worse  than  her  conduct,  or  more  likely  to 
confirm  a  selfish  and  self-willed  child  in  what 
was  wrong  ?  and  yet,  I  am  happy  to  say,  that 
the  idea  of  the  dog  suffering  so  much,  made  the 
little  boy  cry.  When  his  father,  in  a  couple  of 
hours,  taking  him  into  his  dressing-room,  told 
him  of  the  sinfulness  of  indulging  in  such  vio- 
lence and  selfishness,  and  of  its  results.  Hector 
listened  at  first  sullenly,  but,  b"  degrees,  when 
he  understood  what  his  father  meant,  and  when 
his    mind,    which  was   naturally  clear, — while 


'  NUMBER    ONE.'  41 

his  disposition  (when  not  under  the  influence  of 
temper)  was  kind, — was  brought  to  see  and  feel, 
he  threw  his  arms  round  his  neck,  and  exclaim- 
ed— '  Father,  father,  no  one  ever  told  me  this 
before.' 

These  simple  and  natural  words  touched  his 
father's  heart,  for  he  felt  that  they  were  true. 
While  Hector's  body  had  been  pampered,  while 
he  had  been  nursed  in  every  species  of  self-in- 
dulgence, his  mind  had  been  weakened  by  the 
want  of  the  wholesomest  of  all  exercises — self- 
restraint;  and  at  an  age  when  boys  ought  to 
be  able  to  practise  forbearance,  and  enjoy  the 
luxury  of  sharing  what  they  have  with  those 
around  them,  the  poor  little  fellow  had  only  ta- 
ken his  first  lesson  in  this  most  endearing  of 
all  qualities. 

'  May  I  kiss  and  make  friends  with  the  dog, 
father  ?'   he  said,  '  and  buy  it  a  gold  collar  ? ' 

'  My  dear,'  answered  his  father,  '  the  dog  is  of 
so  generous  a  nature  that  he  will  readily  for- 
give you.  I  am  sure  he  would  even  lick  the 
hand  that  dealt  him  so  bitter  a  blow ;  but  the 
collar  of  gold  would  be  a  poor  recompense  for 
the  bruises  he  has  received.  Kindness  and  for- 
bearance. Hector,  are  of  more  real  value  than 
gold,  as  you  will  find  when  you  are  as  old  as 
your  father.' 

Mr.  Howard  spoke  seriously  to  his  wife  of 
the  growing  faults  in  Hector's  character,  which 
he  attributed  to  the  evil  management  of  the  nurse. 


42  '  NUMBER    ONE.' 

Mrs  Howard,  ill  and  weak  as  she  continued  to 
be,  summoned  the  woman,  who  pleaded  her  love 
for  'the  beautiful,  dear  young  gentleman'  in  ex- 
tenuation of  her  indulgence,  and  promised  to  do 
her  best  to  '  go  against  him,'  if  she  could.  Mr. 
Howard  saw  that  she  was  too  weak-minded  and 
indulgent  to  understand  her  duty,  and  resolved 
to  do  something  at  once,  but  was  unfortunately 
called  away  from  home  before  any  thing  was 
accomplished. 

Hector,  like  all  boys,  was  fond  of  horses,  and 
it  is  very  natural  and  right  to  be  fond  of  so  fine 
and  noble  an  animal ;  but  it  does  not  follow  that, 
because  young  gentlemen  like  horses,  they  are 
also  to  like  the  society  of  grooms  ;  yet,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  Hector  was  almost  as  fond  of  the 
grooms  as  he  was  of  the  horses.  When  atten- 
ded in  his  rides,  the  groom  was  sure  to  say  how 
glad  he  would  be  if  his  father  kept  hounds; 
that  when  he  came  to  be  a  man  he  hoped  he 
would  do  so  ;  that  he  ought,  for  he  was  an  only 
ron,  he  would  have  the  finest  fortune  in  the 
country ;  it  was  so  lucky  for  him  that  he  was 
'  Number  One,'  all  alone,  nor.  plagued  like 
young  Master  Lycet  with  seven  brothers  and 
sisters, — having  the  name  of  eldest  so.n,  and  j'et 
gcttirg  so  little  by  it  ;  it  was  a  fine  thing,  he 
said,  to  continue  '  Number  One,'  a  fine  thing  for 
any  young  gentleman,  who  could  then  do  as 
he  liked,  and  be  his  own  master.  But  it  was 
not  only  nurses  and   grooms  who  said    wrong 


'  NDMBER    ONE.'  43 

and  foolish  things  in  the  boy's  hearing ;  finely 
dressed  but  silly  ladies,  when  they  smoothed  his 
ringlets  and  kissed  him,  said  he  'was  a  pretty 
boy,  and  between  his  beauty  and  his  fortune  he 
was  sure  to  be  a  great  favorite  ; '  and  even  so- 
ber gentlemen  spoke  in  the  child's  hearing  of 
'  the  careful  manner  in  which  Mr.  Howard  lived, 
and  which  must  secure  his  son  an  immense 
fortune  hereafter.' 

Master  Nicholas  Lycet,  the  young  gentleman 
of  whom  the  groom  had  spoken,  came  to  see 
him  one  day.  He  was  three  or  four  years  old- 
er than  '  Number  One.'  '  Master  Howard,'  said 
Nick,  '  you  are  often  very  lonely,  I  suppose  ?  ' 

'  No,'  said  Hector,  '  not  very.^ 

'  Well,  I  should  think  you  were.  What  do 
you  do  when  you  want  some  one  to  play  with 
you  ? ' 

'  O  !  why  I  play  by  myself,  at  ball,  and  the 
servants  pick  it  up,  and  then  I  throw  it  again.' 

'  And  then  they  pick  it  up  again,  I  suppose  ?' 
said  Master  Lycet,  laughing. 

'  To  be  sure  they  do,'  replied  Master  Howard, 
seriously. 

'  But  that  is  not  what  I  call  play,'  observed 
Nicholas  ;  '  I  like  a  game  of  ball  with  my  two 
brothers,  while  my  sisters  and  the  little  ones 
look  on,  and  shout,  and  enjoy  u  as  much  ut. 
ourselves.' 

'  But  does  not  that  disturb  you  ?' 

'  No.     The  very  little  ones  sometimes  run  un- 


44  'NUMBER  ONE.' 

der  OUT  feet,  but  that  only  makes  us  all  laugh 
the  more ;  and  sometimes  we  take  our  kites  to 
the  hill,  and  see  whose  will  fly  highest ;  and 
we  are  learning  cricket ;  and  we  race  our  little 
Shetland  ponies  sometimes,  only  not  too  long, 
because  we  must  not  fatigue  them  ;  and  we  go 
nutting  in  the  wood  ;  and  on  wet  days  we  dance 
and  fence,  and  play  small  plays  together.' 

'  But,'  said  Hector,  '  do  not  the  young  ones 
want  your  pony  to  ride,  and  your  toys  and 
things  ?' 

'  To  be  sure  they  do,'  replied  Nicholas. 

*  And  what  do  you  do  ?' 

'  Let  them  have  them ;  it  is  such  a  pleasant 
thing  to  make  them  happy.' 

Hector  was  very  much  puzzled  to  know 
how  it  was,  that  giving  his  toys  to  others  to  play 
with  could  make  him  happy  ;  and  while  he  was 
thinking  it  over,  he  took  Nicholas  to  his  play- 
room, and  showed  him  toys  enough  to  set  up  a 
toyshop,  amongst  which  was  the  largest  rock- 
ing-horse ever  made  in  England.' 

'  I  will  show  you  how  beautifully  it  goes,' 
said  Hector,  springing  on  its  back. 

*  Capital ! '  exclaimed  his  companion  ;  '  now 
let  me  try.' 

'  O  no  ! '  replied  Hector,  '  you  can  look  at  me  ; 
that  will  do  for  ycm  quite  as  well.' 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,'  said  young  Lycet,  full} 
sensible  of  his  companion's  selfish  rudeness ; 
'  but  at  home  we  have  all  things  so  much  in  com- 


'NUMBER  ONE.'  45 

mon  thai  1  did  not  think  you  would  wKh  to 
keep  all  the  fun  to  yourself.' 

Hector  got  down,  looking:  sulky,  and,  tossing 
his  head,  replied :  '  Well,  I  dare  say  that  may 
be  the  case ;  you  are  an  eKiest  son,  but  I  am 
an  only  child,  and  shall  have  the  finest  estate  in 
the  county.' 

'  Not  till  your  father  dies,'  answered  Master 
Lycet,  ♦  and  1  am  sure  you  do  not  wish  for  that.' 

Hector  did  not  wish  it,  and  fell  the  tears  rush 
to  his  eyes  at  the  idea.  He  changed  the  sub- 
ject, and  then  took  his  acquaintance  to  the  sta- 
ble to  show  him  his  little  Arabian  horse,  which 
he  mounted,  and  exhibited  its  paces,  but  never 
offered  Nicholas  a  ride.' 

'  I  have  not  seen  any  pets,'  said  Nick. 

'"I  had  rabbits,  and  hawks,  and  dogs,  and  sil- 
ver pheasants  once,'  answered  Hector ;  '  but 
when  I  wanted  the  servants  to  attend  to  me 
they  were  busy  with  the  pets.  I  could  not 
stand  that,  you  know,  and  so  gave  them  all  a- 
way,  except  the  dogs  ;  and  one  tires  of  dogs,  but 
they  are  about  somewhere.' 

'  Then  I  have  not  seen  your  books,'  observed 
young  Lycet;  '  where  are  your  favorite  books  ?' 

'  I  cannot  say  I  have  any  facorite  books,' 
replied  'Number  One,'  blushing  a  little,  for  he 
knew  his  education  had  been  neglected  ;  but  I 
cannot  think  how  any  boy  of  spirit  can  have  fa- 
vorite books.  I  have  some  books,  but  none 
worth  lookinn-  at.' 


4'l  'NUMBER  ONE.' 

*  I  wonder  at  your  having'  anything  rwt  worth 
looking  at,  as  you  are  an  only  child,'  said  Nich- 
olas, bluntly  ;  and  then  continued,  '  I  am  sure  I 
would  not  change  places  with  you, — it  is  so  sweet 
to  make  one's  brothers  and  sisters  happy,  and 
see  them  try  to  make  you  happy, — I  would 
not  change  places — and  become  a '  Number  One,' 
— no,   not    for  all    your  beautiful  things,' 

It  was  not  polite  to  make  these  observations  ; 
but  young  Lycet  was  hurt  at  the  rudeness  and 
selfishness  of  his  host,  and  was  too  fond  at  all 
times  of  speaking  his  mind,  which,  if  rudely 
done,  is  selfihsness  in  another  form. 

When  the  dinner  was  served.  Master  How- 
ard's nurse  came  behind  his  chair  to  help  him, 
as  usual,  picking  out  the  nicest  bits,  and  com- 
plaining, while  he  was  devouring  every  thing, 
that  her 'darling  had  no  appetite.'  The  foot- 
man carved  ;  and  was  about  placing  the  wing  of 
a  chic>ken  upon  Master  Lycet's  plate,  when  tTie 
nurse  said,  '  Robert,  Robert !  you  know  Master 
Howard  is  so  delicate  that  he  never  eats  any 
thing  bu.t  the  liver  ivhig  ! ' 

Robert,  who  had  just  entered  the  service,  first 
apologised, and  then  said, 'That  was  a  difTerence 
in  wings  he  never  could  understand  ;  as  surely 
the  liver  did  not  grow  undr.v  one  wing  more  than 
another.' 

Hector  told  him  '  He  was  very  impertinent  to 
make  such  an  observation,  and  that  he  must 
leave  the  room.'      The  servant  did  so,  mutter- 


•nomber  one.'  47 

ing  about  not  entering  it  again,  and  spoilt  chil- 
dren. 

Young  Lycet  felt  himself  very  uncomfort- 
able ;  and  at  last  asked  if  he  was  not  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  Master  Howard's  mother  ? 

The  nurse  said  her  lady  seldom  left  her  room  ; 
and  then  Nittiolas  told  them,  that  his  father 
had  said  he  hoped  Master  Howard  would  return 
with  him  to  the  Hall,  as  Mr.  Howard  would 
soon  be  home,  and  then  Hector  and  himself  were 
to  be  sent  to  school  together.  This  was  as  great 
a  surprise  to  the  nurse  as  to  '  Number  One.' — 
The  former  ran  up  to  tell  her  mistress,  and  the 
latter  cried  over  his  tart. 

Mrs.  Howard  confirmed  young  Lycet's  inform- 
ation. The  nurse  attempted  to  remonstrate ; 
the  poor  lady  silenced  her  at  once,  and  told  her 
she  desired  to  be  alone.  She  had  invited  young 
Lycet,  in  accordance  with  a  plan  at  last  ar- 
ranged by  Mr.  Howard,  that  his  son  might 
know  at  least  one  of  his  future  companions  ; 
and  not  feel  leaving  home  as  much  as  if  he  went 
among  total  strangers.  To  spare  his  wife  as 
much  as  possible  the  pain  of  parting  from  her 
child,  when  Mr.  Howard  returned  he  removed 
her  to  Brighton  ;  so  there  was  no  leave-taking. 

When  Hector  found  that  neither  his  nurse 
hi«  pony,  nor  any  of  his  toys,  beyond  a  cricket- 
ball  and  bat,  were  to  go  with  him,  he  became 
quite  violent ;  but  Mr.  Howard  was  firm,  and 
though   at  the  very    last    Hector   clung    to  his 


48  *  NUMBKR  ONE.' 

knees,  and  promised  to  be  all  he  wished,  to 
school  he  went. 

The  gentleman  to  whom  he  was  sent,  only  re- 
ceived fourteen  pupils  :  those  boys  cared  very 
little  foj  young  Howard,  being  an  only  child  ; 
but  his  selfishness  and  ill-temper  annoyed  them 
so  much,  that  he  very  soon  found  himself  shun- 
ned even  by  young  Lycet,  whose  good  humor, 
industry,  and  ability,  rendered  him  an  universal 
favorite  ;  the  greatest  favorite,  however,  in  the 
school,  was  a  lad  of  the  name  of  '  Rhody.' 
Rhody  was  an  officer's  youngest  son,  the  young- 
est of  eleven,  so  he  neither  had  much  pocket- 
money  to  spend,  nor  many  presents  to  receive  : 
still  the  brightness  of  his  spirits,  his  entire  care- 
lessness of  self,  and  his  universal  ability,  which 
he  was  always  ready  to  exert  for  his  fellow-pu- 
pils, made  him  most  popular  with  all ;  and  the 
contrast  between  him  and  Hector  was  so  great, 
as  to  form  a  frequent  subject  for  conversation 
amongst  the  young  gentlemen. 

Poor  Hector  !  his  character  had  become  so 
defective  that  it  was  impossible  to  know  at 
which  end  to  commence  amending  it ;  his  prids 
had  grown  into  the  rankest  insolence  ;  his  help- 
lessness i*2ndered  him  a  burden,  which  no  one 
Avas  willing  to  bear ;  he  was  thus  thrown  back 
upon  his  own  resources,  which  were  enfeebled 
for  want  of  u»3e ;  but  his  greediness,  which  a 
liberal  supply  of  pocket-money  enabled  him  to 
indulge,  made  him  despised  more  than  an\  ihing 


•number  one.'  49 

else  ;  and  his  disdain  of  beef  and  mutton  raised 
a  frequent  laugh  at  his  expense  :  for  all  that, 
his  education  improved,  his  dislike  of  books 
yielded  to  emulation,  and  his  excellent  master 
(hopeless  as  the  task  seemed  to  every  one  else) 
trusted  that  time,  and  total  absence  from  his 
blindly  indulgent  home,  might  at  last  overcome 
much  that  was  evil,  more  particularly  as  occa- 
sional glimpses  of  better  things  were  visible — at 
long  intervals,  to  be  sure,  but  even  these  glimp- 
ses left  something  to  hope  from.  He  had  been 
nearly  a  year  at  school,  when  one  morning  his 
master  was  disturbed  by  a  violent  altercation  in 
the  play-ground ;  he  entered  the  arena  with  an 
open  letter  he  had  been  reading  in  his  hand, 
and  there  saw  young  Howard  in  a  violent  slate 
of  excitement ;  he  had  no  means  at  the  moment 
to  ascertain  how  the  quarrel  began,  but  he  heard 
him  say,  '  I,  who  shall  be,  and  Nick  Lycet 
knows  it  if  he  chooses  to  speak,  the  richest  man 
in  the  county;  who  never  wa^  expected  to  carve 
my  own  dinner,  or  feed  myself,  or  eat ' 

'  Any  thing  but  liver-wings,'  added  Nicholas, 
spitefully  enough. 

'  For  shame  !  for  shame  !'  said  Rhody,  '  that's 
not  generous,  Lycet,  only  you  are  vexed  with 
him  now.' 

'  I,  who  have  been  petted  as  an  only  child ' 

*  A  *  Number  One,"  repeated    two   or  three 
together. 
4 


50  'NUMBER  ONE.' 

'  And  always  had  my  own  way' — persisted 
Hector. 

'  Before  you  came  to  school,'  interrupted  an- 
other. 

'  We  would  all  help  you,  if  you  would  help  us 
in  return,'  said  a  rosy-faced  boy. 

'  Yes  ! '  exclaimed  Rhody,  '  so  we  would, 
with  all  our  hearts.  You  know  the  maxim  you 
wrote  so  often  in  your  copy-book,  Howard — 
'  One  good  turn  deserves  another,'  and  '  Give 
and  take  ; '  and  the  fable,  too,  about  a  lion,  who 
was  glad  of  a  mouse's  little  teeth  to  nibble  him 
out  of  the  net ;  so,  even  if  you  were  a  lion,  you 
might  be  civil  to  the  mice.' 

'I  vote,'  quoth  an  embryo  M.  P. ,  '  that  we  ask 
our  master's  permission  to  send  Master  Howard 
to  Coventry  for  a  month,  where  no  one  is  to  do 
anything  for  him  ;  mind,  «o  one,  and  then  he 
would  find  out  how  helpless  the  grandee  '  Num- 
ber One'  may  become.' 

Hector  Howard  eyed  the  various  speakers,  one 
after  the  other,  with  a  countenance  swollen  with 
indignation,  and  was  about  to  say  something 
very  desperate,  when  Dr.  Stanley,  the  master, 
came  forward. 

'  I  do  not  like  this,  young  gentlemen,'  he  said ; 
'it  is  very  unlike  the  youths  of  England  to  fall 
upon  one ;  and  you,  Lycet,  in  particular,  who 
know  the  defects  of  his  education,  and  came 
here  as  his  friend ;  it  takes  a  long  time  to  erad- 
icate errors  whose   growth    commenced    in  his 


'NUMBER  ONE.'  61 

nurse's  arms,  and  you  must  have  observed  the 
state  of  suffering-  he  has  lived  in '  —  the  lads 
looked  astonished  —  '  yes,  positive  suffering,'  he 
resumed.  '  Whoever  indulges  selfishness  in 
youth  will  be  scourged  by  selfishness  in  after 
life.  The  selfish  man  would  desire  to  live  a- 
mongst  slaves,  who  would  pamper  and  indulge 
him  ;  but,  happily,  in  England,  there  are  no 
slaves  to  live  amongst.'  Some  of  the  boys 
clapped  their  hands,  but  the  reproving  eye  of  the 
master  was  upon  them.  '  There  are,'  he  contiar 
ued,  '  a  few  whom  interest  or  a  weak  affection 
may  compel  to  endure  the  tyranny  of  selfish- 
ness ;  but  such  endurance  could  not  be  desired 
by  a  right-minded  person,  and,  I  think  and  be- 
lieve, the  time  will  come  when  Hector  will 
agree  with  me.' 

'  But,  sir,'  said  one  of  the  boys,  '  he  treats  us 
as  if  we  were  his  inferiors.  We  are  all  the 
sons  of  gentlemen,  as  well  born  as  himself;  and 
if  he  wants  to  be  indulged  he  should  conciliate. 
I  am  not  to  be  insulted  because  my  father  has 
only  a  thousand  a  year,  while  his  father  has  ten.' 

'  We  never  had  any  talk  about  property  un- 
til he  came  amongst  us,  sir,'  exclaimed  an- 
other. 

'  Well,  well,'  said  the  master,  '  I  will  inquire 
into  the  origin  of  this  disturbance  by-and-by. 
I  have  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Howard  this 
morning,  and  he  wishes  to  have  his  son  home 
for  a  month.' 


S8  •nctjiber  one.' 

Hector  sprang  to  the  doctor's  side.  '  O,  sir  ! 
you  will  let  me  go,  will  you  not  ? ' 

'  I  think  your  own  heart  will  tell  you  that  you 
do  not  deserve  the  indulgence,  —  and  yet !  but 
come  into  my  room.'  The  doctor  led  the  way, 
and  Hector  followed. 

'  I  know  what  the  doctor  is  going  to  tell  our 
most  royal  '  Number  One,"  said  young  Rhody, 
rubbing  his  hands.  '  I  had  a  letter  from  mother 
this  morning,  and  she  visits  Mrs.  Howard's 
sister.  I  know  what  the  '  only  child'  will  hear, 
and  I  was  greatly  tempted  to  tell  it  out  before 
you  all  when  he  insulted  us,  stuffing  his  gold 
down  our  throats,  as  if  every  guinea  was  a 
sponge-cake ;  but  I  did  not  like  to  hurt  him  as  I 
knew  what  he  will  have  to  suffer.  Well  might 
the  doctor  say,  that  whoever  indulges  selfish- 
ness in  youth  will  be  scourged  by  selfishness 
in  after  life.' 

'  Is  his  poor  mother  dead  ? '  inquired  Lycet, 

'  No,  indeed  ;  but  you  know  how  much  Hector 
has  been  petted.' 

'  To  be  sure  we  do.' 

'  And  how  delighted  he  is  at  the  prospect  of 
being  always   'Number   One." 

'  Yes,  yes,  we  do,'  exclaimed  the  boys. 

'  And  how  he  rejoices  at  not  being  troubled, 
as  he  calls  it,  with  brothers  and  sisters.' 

'  0,  to  be  sure,  we  all  know  that,  Rhody  ;  have 
you  nothing  else  to  tell  us  ^ ' 


•number  one.'  53 

'  Yes,  I  have  ;  he  has  got  a  new  brother  and 
sister.' 

'  \\'^hat,  both  at  once  ! '  exclaimed  several. 

'  Yes  ;  I  will  read  you  a  bit  of  mother's  let- 
ter.' They'^  gathered  in  a  circle  round  him. 
'  You  will  be  astonished  to  hear  that  your  school- 
fellow, Hector  Howard,  so  long  considered  the 
only  heir  to  his  father's  property,  i?  so  no  long- 
er, hi^mother  having,  the  day  before  yesterday, 
presented  his  father  with  twins.' 

At  this,  some  of  the  boys  to  whom  Hector 
had  been  very  overbearing,  gave  a  shout,  but 
the  good  feeling  of  others  suppressed  it ;  and 
all  began  talking  immediately  on  the  probable 
efiects  of  this  information,  and  conjectured  how 
he  would  bear  it.  After  a  time  they  re-entered 
the  school-room,  but  Hector  was  not  there;  I 
fear  that  the  delicacy  evinced  by  Rhody  in  not 
proclaiming  the  news  before  Hector  (who  fre- 
quently^ treated  him  with  contempt,  because  of 
his  comparative  poverty)  was  hardly  appreciated 
as  it  deserved  to  be  by  his  companions.  Rhody 
felt  his  narrow  means  more  acutely  than  could 
be  imagined  ;  he  turned  with  a  careless  air  from 
the  confectioner's  basket,  when  he  would  have 
liked  a  cake  as  well  as  any^  other  boy,  and 
kept  looking  straightforward,  instead  of  into  the 
toyshop  or  fruiterer's,  knowing  that  his  purse 
was  fndeed  slender.  He  often  longed  to  help 
Hector  with  his  lessons,  but  he  knew  that  if  he 
did  so  his  schoolmates  would  sav  he  was  mean  ; 


54  'NOMBEK  ONE.' 

and  Hector,  seeing  Rhoay  so  anxious  to  help  all 
except  himself,  felt  much  annoyed  at  being  ex- 
cluded from  such  valuable  aid  ;  but  now  mat- 
ters, at  least  so  the  goodnatured  Rhody  thought, 
were  much  changed.  '  Number  One'  was  now 
only  one  of  three.  He  glided  from  the  school- 
room, and  met  the  wardrobe  woman  on  the 
stairs,  who  said  Master  Howard  would  not  suffer 
her  to  pack  his  trunk.  The  next  moment  Rhody 
was  at  the  door  of  Hector's  pretty  bedchamber 
— he  knocked,  at  first  there  was  no  answer, 
again,  when  there  was  a  surly '  Come  in,'  and 
Rhody  entered.  Hector  was  standing  beside 
his  open  trunk,  some  of  his  clothes  lying  on 
the  floor,  some  in  the  drawers. 

'What  do  you  want?'  inquired  youngHoward. 

'  I  knew  you  were  going  home,'  replied  Rho- 
dy, '  and  thought  I  would  come  and  help  you.' 

'  I  do  not  want  any  help,'  was  the  sulky 
reply. 

'  0  but  you  do,  though,'  said  the  good-natured 
lad.  '  This  is  not  the  way  to  fold  a  shirt  or  lay 
a  jacket, — come  now,  like  a  good  fellow,  let  me 
fold  them  ;  it  will  be  a  pleasure.' 

'  I  do  not  want  to  give  you,  or  anybody 
pleasure,  I  am  sure,'  grumbled  Hector,  keeping 
his  face  to  the  wall,  for  he  was  too  proud  to 
let  his  tears  be  seen.  Rhody  paused  in  his  ac- 
tive exertions  to  arrange  Hector's  trunk,'  and 
looked  vexed;    but  he  saw  how  his  chest  was 


^t;MBER  ONE.'  66 

heaving  with  suppressed  emotion,  and  resumed 
his  occupation,  talking  gaily  all  the  time. 

'  There's  a  smart  waistcoat !  I  remember.  Hec- 
tor, the  last  time  you  wore  that  waistcoat ;  you 
took  pains  in  scripture  answers,  and  routed  us 
all  out  of  our  places  :  and  here  are  embroid- 
ered braces  !  my  !  but  they  are  gay  !  and  such  a 
heap  of  silk  handkerchiefs  !  and  white  ones 
too  !  and  silk  socks  !  and  shiny  shoes  !  and, — 
well !  I  never  saw  so  many  white  kid  gloves  to- 
gether in  my  life  !  now  I  think  that  is  all. — 
Why  there  is  the  post-chaise  at  the  door,  and 
the  old  servant  who  came  to  see  you ;  he  is 
come  for  you  no'.y.  Good  bye  ;  there's  a  good 
fellow  !  What !  you  won't  say  good  bye  ?  Well, 
I'll  say  it.  Good  bye,  Hector  ;  good  bye,  my 
boy : — trotting  off!  What  a  lucky  fellow  you  are  ! 
Now  the  trunk  is  locked  ;  there's  the  key.' 

'Give  it  to  my  servant,'  growled  Hector,  in 
his  usual  haughty  tone,  with  his  face  still  turn- 
ed to  the  wall.  'Give  it  to  your  servant!' 
muttered  Rhody,  and  he  clenched  his  hand  at 
this  ungrateful  return  for  his  goodnature  ;  •  I've 
a  great  mind,'  he  thought,  'to  give  it  to  himself; 
the  impertinent  cub!'  Almost  before  the  idea 
was  formed,  it  was  checked  ;  Hector,  fairly  con- 
quered at  last  by  such  patient  kindness,  threw 
his  arms  round  Rhody's  neck,  and  burst  into  a 
flood  of  tears ;  neither  boys  spoke,  but  Hector 
felt  he  had  a  friend,  and  Rhody  that  he  had 
done  right ;  and  that  evening,  in  a  sort  of  school 


66  'NUMBER  Oi\E.' 

conclave,  that  was  discussing  the  merits,  or 
rather  demerits,  of  the  proud  and  selfish  subject 
of  my  story,  Rhody  stood  forth  his  champion. 

'  It's  all  very  well  for  us,'  he  said,  '  who 
have  been  properly  brought  up,  —  watched  by 
fathers,  who  not  being  of  very  great  consequence 
in  the  state,  were  able  to  stay  at  home  and  at- 
tend to  us ;  watched  by  mothers  with  tender 
care,  and  yet,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  with 
sufficient  strength  of  mind  and  body  to  keep  us 
in  healthful  subjection  ;  our  tempers  alternately 
teased  and  pleased  by  juvenile  brothers  and  sis- 
ters, whom  we  are  forced  to  give  way  to,  by  the 
double  motive  of  love  and  interest ;  first,  you 
know,  we  love  them ;  and,  if  we  did  not,  we 
should  have  no  peace  unless  we  yielded.  It's 
all  very  well  for  us  to  be  the  dear,  delightful, 
amiable  fellows  we  are.  But  think  how  poor 
Hector  has  been  brought  up  !  you  have  heard 
Lycet's  stories  of  his  home,  dozens  of  times,  and 
my  only  astonishment  is  that  he  is  as  good  as 
he  is,  and  I'd  lay  ten  to — but  I  forgot,  the  doc- 
tor will  not  suffer  us  to  bet — only — I'll — I'll  eat 
my  hand  !  if  Hector  Howard  is  not  as  fine  a  fel- 
low as — ' 

'  As  yourself,'  shouted  some  of  the  lads. 

'  No !  no  ! '  said  orator  Rhody,  '  but  as  your- 
selves.' 

When  Hector  got  home,  his  father  met  him 
wiih  a  cheerful  countenance ;  wished  him  joy, 
and  took  him  immediately  to  his  mother's  room. 


'NUMBER  ONE.'  67 

His  mother  kissed  him  as  tenderly  as  ever,  and 
then  he  was  told  to  kiss  his  '  lovely  little  broth- 
er and  sister.' 

'  I  declare,'  said  the  nurse  (not  his  nurse, 
however),  '  Miss  Caroline  has  her  brother's  nose, 
and  Master  Leopold  his  eyes.' 

Hector  thought  them  hideous  both,  and  turn- 
ed away  his  head.    '  I  can't  kiss  babies,'  he  said. 

'  Well,  my  dear,'  observed  his  father,  '  you'll 
get  used  to  them  in  time  ;  they  quite  enliven 
the  house.' 

'  Where  is  Nurse?'  inquired  Hector. 

'  Gone  back  to  her  native  county,  my  dear,' 
answered  Mr.  Howard  ;  '  I  could  not  suffer  her 
to  spoil  all  my  children,  you  know;  but  do  not 
cry.  Hector,  she  is  provided  for  and  happy,  for, 
much  as  she  spoilt  you,  I  am  sure  she  only 
meant  to  do  what  was  right.' 

Hector  went  to  the  stable  to  see  his  pony  ; 
but  to  his  great  disappointment,  though  the  pony 
was  there,  looking  sleek,  and  fat,  and  happy,  there 
was  no  one  to  saddle  him  :  one  groom  had  been 
sent  to  fetch  the  doctor,  because  little  Miss 
Caroline  had  sneezed  very  much,  and  they 
feared  she  had  taken  cold,  and  the  other  was 
helping  to  put  the  horses  to  the  carriage,  that 
the  boy-baby  (who  had  sneezed),  might  have  an 
airing  round  the  Park  ;  the  helpers  were  out 
of  the  way.  Hector  stormed  as  he  used  to  do, 
but  there  was  no  one  to  mind  him,  and  his  dig- 
nity felt  sorely  insulted  by  the  tittering  of  two 


58  'NUMBER  ONE-' 

of  the  maids,  whom  he  overheard  declare,  that 
'  Master  Howard  was  as  good  as  a  play-actor.' 
The  sun  was  shitiing,  and  the  birds  were  sing- 
ing, and  the  greensward  looked  so  firm  and  so 
fresh,  that  when  his  temper  cooled  a  little,  he 
thought  it  barely  possible  that  he  could  saddle 
the  pony  himself;  at  first  he  hoped  nobody 
would  see  him,  and  he  accomplished  his  task 
admirably;  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  up  and 
away,  forgetful  of  all  his  annoyances,  and,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  enjoying  that  noble 
feeling  of  independence  which  proceeds  from 
self-exertion.  He  galloped  up  the  hill  in  the 
Deer  Park,  and  then  drew  up  to  peer  through 
the  thickets  beneath  at  the  deer,  and  the  pretty 
does  with  their  young  fawns ;  he  then  looked 
into  the  valley  beyond,  where  the  stately  stags, 
dappled  and  shining  in  the  sunbeams,  were 
enjoying  their  existence.  An  old  man  was  seat- 
ed half  way  down  the  other  side  of  the  hill  on 
a  bundle  of  sticks.     Hector  rode  down  to  him. 

'What  are  you  waiting  for?'  he  inquired. 

'  For  my  brother,  young  master,  for  my  bro- 
ther, who  will  be  here  presently  to  carry  my 
sticks,'  was  the  reply. 

'  Your  brother  !  do  you  love  your  brother  ? ' 

'  To  be  sure  I  do,  my  gay  young  master  ;  he 
is  a  very  good  lad.' 

'  A  lad !  old  man,'  exclaimed  Hector. 

'  Ay,  young  gentleman,  a  matter  of  twenty- 
five  years  younger  than  me.    Mother  and  father 


'NUMBER  ONE.'  59 

died  soon  after  he  was  bom,  and  I  nursed  him 
up,  and  took  care  of  him,  and  now  he  is  both  son 
and  brother  to  my  old  age  ;  I  did  my  duty  to 
him,  and,  according  to  the  course  of  nature,  he 
does  his  duty  to  me  now.' 

'  And  were  you  an  only  son  before  he  was 
born  ?'  inquired  Hector  eagerly. 

'  Indeed  was  I,  and  thought  it  funny  enough 
to  have  a  baby-brother ;  but  he  was  a  pretty 
boy,  a  very  pretty  boy — and  a  good  boy,  which 
was  better.' 

Hector  rode  more  soberly  home,  thinking,  per- 
haps, of  what  he  had  heard. 

Master  Hovi'-ard  had  now  spent  a  week  at 
home,  and  was  fully  convinced,  that  though  his 
father  and  mother  were  as  affectionate  as  ever 
to  him,  his  position  was  totally  changed  ;  he  was 
a  dear  and  cherished  object,  but  he  was  not  the 
only  one.  He  had  made  up  his  mind,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  to  dislike  the  babies ;  but  you 
must  remember  that  Hector  was  by  no  means  a 
hard  or  bad-hearted  boy,  he  was  only  a  misman- 
aged one, — his  faults  had  not  only  been  increas- 
ed, but  frequently  in  a  great  degree,  created 
by  over  indulgence;  and  though  he  said, very 
wickedly,  that  he  hated  the  poor  little  helpless 
things  who  engiossed  all  the  attention  of  the  ser- 
vants and  visiters,  yet  he  could  not  hear  them 
cry  without  pain,  and  was  once  detected  stuf- 
fing a  piece  of  barley-sugar  into  the  girl-baby's 
mouth. 


()0  'NITMBEU  ONE.' 

Still  he  was  not  so  happy  at  home  as  he  used 
to  be,  and  returned  to  school  far  more  willingly 
than  his  father  expected. 

The  boys  had  been  commanded  by  their 
good  master,  not  to  revert  to  the  past,  but  to  re- 
ceive Hector  kindly ;  and  the  warm  shake  he 
gave  Rhody's  hand,  made  that  youth  declare 
that  he  was  'all  right!'  It  was  a  great  credit 
to  those  young  gentlemen,  that  they  neither 
teazed  nor  taunted  him,  whom  they  quizzed 
a  little  sometimes  among  themselves  as  the 
late  '  Ninnber  One ; '  and  though  there  were 
occasional  outbreaks  of  temper,  and  particularly 
of  selfishness,  it  is  due  to  Hector  to  record,  that 
he  had  begun  to  combat  both  ;  and  when  he  left 
the  good  doctor  for  Eton,  he  left  with  a  much 
higher  character  than  that  with  which  he  came. 
He  was  still-  too  unyielding  to  have  been  belov- 
ed ;  but  those  who  observed  the  bitter  struggle 
he  frequently  made  to  overcome  past  habits, 
said  he  would  be  sure  to  conquer  in  the  end. 

At  Eton  he  was  frequently  reminded  of  his 
father's  words,  that  '  kindness  and  forbearance 
are  of  more  real  value  than  gold.'  Rhody  had 
gone  to  sea  as  a  midshipman  ;  Lycet  was  at 
Rugby :  he  had  therefore  no  friends  at  Eton, 
but  constantly  came  in  contact  with  selfish  fel- 
lows, who  entertained  no  kindness  or  forbear- 
ance towards  him.  His  home  indulgences  were 
not  increased  by  the  addition,  in  a  couple  of 
years,  of  rtuolher  girl,  and,  in   another  vear,  a 


'NUMBER  ONE.'  61 

boy  ;  so  that,  instead  of  being  '  Number  One,'  in 
a  short  time  Hector  was  an  unit  of 'Number 
Five;'  still  he  felt  that  his  home  was  better 
regulated  than  in  the  old  times ;  his  mother's 
health  was  re-established  ;  and  his  brothers  and 
sisters  were  not  permitted  the  indulgences  or 
extravagances,  which,  however  pleasant  at  the 
time,  caused  him  so  much  after  pain. 

As  he  grew  to  be  a  man,  his  father  some- 
times consulted  him  on  matters  of  business ; 
and,  if  he  could  have  loved  his  brothers  and 
sisters,  he  might  have  been  happy.  His  unfor- 
tunate jealousy  of  the  love  their  parents  show- 
ed them  (and  jealousy  is  one  of  the  first  fruits  of 
selfishness)  always  disturbed  him  ;  and  at  Col- 
lege he  was  frequently  reminded,  by  the  sinful 
homage  paid  to  wealth  and  rank,  that  if  he  had 
not  had  four  brothers  and  sisters,  he  should  not 
have  been  contradicted  and  overlooked,  as  he 
sometimes  either  felt  or  fancied  he  was. 

Time  passed  on,  he  left  Oxford,  and  had  been 
some  time  abroad  ;  and  yet  returned  sooner  than 
he  wished,  and  with  bitter  feelings  towards  the 
younger  members  of  his  family,  because  his 
father  said  he  could  not,  in  justice  to  his  fami- 
ly, permit  him  to  remain  longer.  On  his  voy- 
age home  he  was  seized  with  rheumatic  fever, 
and,  v/hile  suffering  its  agonies,  landed  at  Ply- 
mouth amongst  strangers  ;  when  he  began  grad- 
ually to  recover,  he  directed  his  foreign  servant 
where  to  write.     '  But  thev  do  not  care  for  ine. 


(32  'NUMBF.U  ON)..* 

he  thoug-ht;  'they  would  be  glad  if  I  were 
dead.'  This  was  very  sinful,  but  he  was  pun- 
ished ;  for  the  fever  returned,  and  the  poor  suf- 
ferer knew  not  how  long  it  continued  ;  he  only 
remembered  gentle  spirits — as  in  his  delirium 
he  fancied  them — -flitting  round  his  bed,  cooling 
with  perfume  his  heated  brow,  smoothing  his 
pillows  ;  dropping  refreshment,  by  slow  degrees, 
between  his  parched  lips,  and  silencing  every 
sound  that  could  disturb  him  ;  and  who  were 
they,  those  ministering  angels  in  his  hours  of 
need  ?  Who  ? — even  Leopold  and  Caroline, 
his  twin  brother  and  sister :  though  it  was  the 
cold  month  of  December,  they  entreated  their 
father  to  take  them  to  their  sick  brother  ;  they 
would  be  happy,  they  said,  '  if  permit  ;ed  to  at- 
tend him  themselves.'  Carry  declared  she  would 
be  an  excellent  nurse,  almost  as  good  as  her 
mother,  who  was  unable  to  leave  Howard  Place 
in  such  severe  weather,  '  she  was  sure  of  it ;  and 
she  knew  she  could  make  dear  Hector  love 
her.'  Leopold  urged  that  he  could  assist  his 
sister,  and  that  Hector  would  recover  more 
quickly  if  not  left  to  the  care  of  hirelings  ;  and 
so  they  quitted  their  brilliant  home,  and  watch- 
ed and  nursed  their  brother  for  many  weeks, 
patiently  and  tenderly,  never  tiring  in  their  la- 
bor of  love,  but  persevering,  with  the  gentleness 
which  is  born  of  affection  unto  the  cfld ;  until, 
supported  upon  either  side  by  those  whose  birth 
had  first  disturbed  the  importance  of  '  Number 


Number  One  — Page  62 


•kttkber  one.'  63 

One,'  he  entered  his  father's  house  happier  :\ 
hundred  fold  than  ever  he  had  been  before, 
cured  of  the  selfishness  which,  hard  to  rub  out, 
had  been  softened  away  by  a  sister's  love  and 
a  brother's  care.  It  was  a  happy  meeting,  and 
rendered  more  happy  still  by  the  presence  of 
his  old  schoolfellow  Rhody,  now  Lieutenant 
James  Rhody  of  the  Royal  Navy  of  England. 

When  able  to  take  exercise,  he  drove  with 
his  Tioio  beloved  family  to  the  hill  in  the  Deer 
Park,  and  told  them  the  first  idea  that  a  young- 
er brother  could  be  a  real  blessing  to  an  elder 
one  was  given  him  by  the  old  man,  -seated  on 
the  bundle  of  wood  ;  and  that,  although  his  un- 
fortunate selfishness  had  so  frequently  over- 
whelmed his  good  feelings,  he  often  and  often 
thought  of  the  poor  old  man's  little  tale.  '  I  am 
so  changed,'  he  said,  '  as  to  wonder  at  my  past, 
and  rejoice  in  my  new  life.  If  I  had  not  such 
a  brother  and  sister  I  should,  in  all  probability, 
have  died  in  a  strange  inn  ;  but  certainly  1 
should  have  continued  violent  and  selfish,  de- 
serving to  live  unbeloved  and  die  unlamented  ; 
a  stately,  cold,  unsympathised  with,  and  un« 
sympathising  '  Number  OncJ' 


LITTLE  CHATTERBOX. 


BT   MRS.  8.  C.   HALL. 


,  HERE  is  an  old  maxim,  which 
I  dare  say  my  young  friends 
have  heard  more  than  once, 
or  twice  :  I  know,  when  I 
was  a  little  girl,  it  was  told 
.Tie  so  often,  that  as  I  grew 
up,  whenever  I  found  my 
tongue  running  too  fast,  I 
used  to  repeat  it  over  and  over  again  to  my- 
self, thus :  '  Young  ladies  should  be  seen  before 
they  are  heard.' — '  Young  ladies  should  be  seen 
bfefore  they  are  heard.'  1  am  sure  father,  or 
mother  or  some  dear  aunt  Sarah,  or  perhaps 
some  of  your  nurses,  have  told  you  this  maxim, 
particularly  if  you  have  been  considered  a  Chat- 
terbox. 

The  English  are  called   a  silent  people,  and 

yet  they  frequently  talk  more,  in    my   opinion, 

than  is  good  either   for  themselves   or  others. 

It   is   the   very  perfection  of  wisdom    to   know 

5 


66  LITTLE    CHATTERBOX. 

when  to  speak,  and  when  to  keep  silence.  Some 
of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  Proverbs  of  Solo- 
mon treat  of  this  :  they  are  admirable  in  every 
way.  I  used  to  commit  them  to  memory,  when 
I  was  a  little  girl  :  I  hope  they  did  me  good. 

A  dear  friend  of  mine  has  a  very  nice  child — 
a  fond,  good  tempered,  generous  little  creature  ; 
her  name  is  Fanny  Eltham ;  you  would  be 
pleased  to  hear  her  sing,  and  see  her  dance,  and, 
still  more  so,  to  observe  how  willingly  she  gives 
up  her  enjoyments  to  make  others  happy.  She 
eajs  whatever  is  put  upon  her  plate,  without  a 
desire  for  change  :  she  shares  her  cakes,  her 
toys,  her  fruits  and  flowers,  joyfully  with  her 
companions — in  short,  were  she  not  such  an 
everlasting  Chatterbox,  she  would  be  the  most 
delightful  young  lady  I  know  ;  but  she  mars  all 
her  good  qualities  by  her  love  of  talking.  Fan- 
ny will  talk  as  long  as  she  can  about  what  she 
understands  ;  and  then  she  will  talk  about  what 
she  cannot  possibly  understand,  rather  than  re- 
main silent.  She  has  not  patience  to  wait  to 
learn  ;  but  wall  run  away  with  the  beginning 
or  end  of  astory,tancying  she  comprehended  the 
whole  ;  and  so,  without  intending  to  circulate 
an  untruth,  she  arrives  at  a  false  conclusion, 
and  leads  others  to  do  the  same  :  not  only  this, 
but  her  active  imagination  causes  her  to  add  to 
a  story  ;  and  she  never  pauses  to  consider  the 
effect  her  words  may  produce. 

It  is  really  wonderful  to  hear  how  fast  Fanny 


LITTLE    CHATTERBOX.  67 

talks — crowding  one  thing  upon  another — heap- 
ing up  words  and  sentences  —  chatter,  chatter, 
chatter  !  —  I  am  sure,  if  hard  work  ever  wore 
out  a  little  tongue,  hers  will  be  gone  before  she 
is  tAventy-  But  1  have  reason  to  think  that 
my  little  Fanny  will  improve  rapidly  :  I  will 
tell    you   why  I  think  so  by-and-bye. 

Before  she  could  pronounce  words  she  would 
keep  on  all  day,  saying,  '  Yab,  yab,  yah  !'  and 
instead  of  trying  to  prevent  this  unceasing  '  yab- 
bing,'  the  nurses  used  to  laugh  at  it  ;  and  her 
ekiest  sister  called  her  '  Yabby,'  a  name  chan- 
ged to  '  Chatterbox  '  before  she  was  three  years 
old.  '  Chatterbox'  had  also  got  a  very  rude 
habit  of  asking  questions,  and  not  attending  to  the 
answers  :  certainly,  of  all  my  little  friends  of  six 
or  seven  years  old,  she  was  the  most  unceasing- 
ly talkative,  and  consequently,  notwithstanding 
her   many  amiable  qualities,  the  most  tiresome. 

Six  months  ago  I  was  on  a  visit  at  her  mo- 
ther's house,  and  I  heard  Fanny's  feet  and 
Fanny's  tongue  running  a  race  together  along 
the  hall  and  up  the  stairs — no  pause,  no  stop  ! 
what   she  said  was  nearly  as  follows  : — 

'  There  Mary  never  mind  my  shoes  as  I  want 
to  tell  mother  how  badly  Pompey  behaved  when 
we  were  opposite  the  Duke's  in  the  park  ran  at 
a  dog's  tail  and  the  dog  ran'  between  a  pony's 
legs  and  then  they  rolled  over  and  over  —  a  po- 
liceman with  three  heads  of  cabbage  which  a 
woman  had  spoke  to  her  about  carrying  parcels 


68  LITTLE    CHATTERBOX. 

in  the  park — and  then  Harry's  hat  went  away 
and   my  hoop  rolled  mto  the  Serpentine  —  and 

Jou  know  you  told  me  to  give  your  love  to  Mrs. 
ohnes — and  the  footman  said  when  he  opened 
the  door  that  his  master  had  run  away  that 
morning  then  he  told  me  not  to  stand  there  and 
slapt  the  door  in  my  face.'  The  latter  part  of 
this  story  was  rapidly  told  in  the  drawing-room, 
where  I  was  sitting  with  Fanny's  mother ;  and  the 
latter  part  only  attracted  my  friend's  attention. 

'  What  do  you  mean,  my  love,  by  Mr.  Johnes' 
having   ran   away  ?'  inquired  Mrs.  Eltham. 

'  The  servant  said  his  master  had  run  away, 
mother,  and  he  would  not  let  me  come  into  the 
hall,  he  was  so  rude  !'  answered  Chatterbox, 
rather  more  slowly  ;  and  was  running  on  with 
some  magnified  account  (for  great  and  rapid  talk- 
ers never  attend  very  strictly  to  what  a  friend — 
a  Quaker  friend — of  mine  calls  '  the  bright  or- 
nament,' meaning  truth),  when  her  mother  de- 
sired her  to  stop. 

'  I  must  inquire  into  this,'  she  said,  and  rose 
to  ring  the  bell.  'Very  strange  !'  she  repeated. 

Fanny  persisted  that  it  '  was  every  word 
true  ;'  that  Mr.  Jolmes  had  run  away  ;  and 
that  she  was  not  permitted  to  enter  the  hall, 
though  she  had  a  particular  message  for  her  lit- 
tle friend  Rosa. 

'  Is  this  so  ?'  inquired  Mrs.  Eltham  of  the 
servant  ;  '  Miss  Fanny  says  Mr.  Johnes  has 
run  away.' 


LITTLE    CHATTERBOX.  69 

•  So  he  has,  ma'am,'  replied  the  maid.  *  He 
ran  away  this  morning  from  the  small-pox,  which 
all  the  children  have  got,  and  which  he  is  dread- 
fully afraid  of  catching.  The  footman  would 
not  let  us  into  the  house  because  of  the  infec- 
tion.' 

Mrs.  Ehham  looked  displeased  with  Fanny. 
'  How  is  this  ?'  she  said.  '  You  misrepresented 
two  facts.  Any  one  who  heard  you  speak  would 
imagine  there  must  be  some  other  cause  for  Mr. 
Johnes'  running  away  ;  and  that  the  footman 
deservied  to  lose  his  place  for  treating  the  child 
of  his  mistress's  friend  with  rudeness  :  where- 
as poor  Mr.  Johnes  ran  away'  because  of  the 
small-pox ;  and  the  footman  deserves  great  cred- 
it for  so  steadily  preventing  the  entrance  you 
would  have  forced  ;  you  might  not  only  have 
caught  the  disease  yourself,  but  brought  the 
dreadful  infection  home  to  your  brothers  and 
sisters.' 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,'  said  Mary 
Browne,  who  was  not  only  a  very  high-princi- 
pled, good  girl,  but  an  excellent  servant  ;  '  I  beg 
your  pardon,  b  .t  I  am  sure  Miss  Fanny  did  not 
intend  to  misrepresent.  She  asked  the  footman 
why  Mr.  Johnes  went  away  ;  but  she  did  not 
attend  to  what  he  said,  and  then  became  rather 
angry  because  he  would  not  let  her  run  across 
the  hall,  as  usual,  to  Miss  Ellen's  room.  1 
would  have  explained  it  to  her,  ma'am,'  added 
the  maid,  who  was  very  gentle  in  her  manner  ; 


70  LITTLE    CHATTERBOX. 

'  but,  really,  Miss  talked  so  all  the  way  home, 
that  I  could  hardly  get  in  a  single  word,  mucli 
less  an  explanation.  Miss  does  not  mean  any 
harm  by  it,  ma'am,  I  am  sure  of  that  :  she  was 
in  charming  spirits  ;  and  when  she  is,  her 
tongue  never  stops.' 

Fanny  looked  abashed  ;  and  her  mother  lec- 
tured her  with  great  kindness  upon  this  fresh 
evidence  of  the  danger  of  her  bad  habit.  She 
shed  a  few  tears,  and  promised  to  be  more  care- 
ful ;  but,  such  was  her  love  of  chattering,  that 
in  less  than  an  hour  I  heard  her  again  talking  to 
the  parrot  that  hung  in  the  hall  ; — a  gay,  merry 
bird  it  used  to  be,  and  formerly  it  said  a  great 
many  words  ;  but  I  dare  say  Mary  Browne  un- 
derstood the  cause  of  its  late  silence.  She  told 
me,  just  before  the  fam.ily  returned  to  the  country, 
that  '  Miss  Fanny  talked  it  dumb.' 

Mary  Browne  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  very  nice 
servant — clean,  active,  orderly,  respectful,  and 
well-mannered  ;  she  was  what  a  good  and  faith- 
ful servant  always  is,  a  great  treasure  ;  and  her 
mistress  brought  up  her  children  so  well,  that 
they  treated  all  the  servants,  but  particularly 
Mary  Browne,  with  civility  and  kindness.  The 
young  lady  who  gave  her  the  most  trouble  was 
Chatterbox  ;  not  only  from  her  incessant  talk- 
ing, but  from  the  various  scrapes  she  got  herself 
and  others  into  by  never  '  thinking  twice  before 
she  spoke  once.' 

This  '  Think   twice  before   you   speak   once, 


LITTLE    CHATTERBOX.  71 

■nd  you  will  speak  twice  the  better  for  it,'  %vas  as 
favorite  a  maxim  of  Mary  Browme,  as  '  Young 
ladies  should  be  seen  before  they  are  heard  '  is 
ctfmine  ;  but  often  as  she  repeated  it  to  little 
Fanny,  still  Fanny  talked,  and  talked  not  only 
without  thinkincf  tvdce  before  she  spoke  once, 
but  without  thinking  at  all.  The  old  manor- 
house  of  Eltham,  where  Fanny's  father  and 
mother  reside  the  greater  pnrt  of  the  year,  is 
just  at  the  end  of  the  village  that  bears  the 
same  name.  A  beautiful  old  village  it  is  : — 
there  is  a  river  so  full  of  trout,  that  on  a  summer 
evening  you  can  see  them  leaping  out  of  the  wa- 
ter at  the  little  grey  thoughtless  flies  that  go 
pleasuring  along  its  surface,  never  dreaming  of 
danger  ;  and  though  one  fly  sees  its  brother  or 
sister  swallowed  by  a  gaping  fish,  it  never  has 
the  sense  to  keep  where  the  fish  cannot  reach 
it.  This  river  is  crossed  by  two  bridges  ;  one 
a  wide  stone  bridge  of  three  arches,  which  leads 
into  the  village  and  to  Eltham  House  ;  the  other 
is  only  a  little  foot  bridge  of  a  couple  of  planks  ; 
you  can  see  them  from  the  wide  bridge,  span- 
ning, as  it  were,  the  river  where  it  is  narrowest 
from  bank  to  bank,  protected  at  each  side  with  a 
good  stout  rope.  This  little  bridge  is  much 
used  by  the  people  who  live  near  the  common 
•when  they  want  to  get  quickly  to  that  end  of  the 
village  where  the  doctor  and  the  curate  live,  and 
where  the  market  is  held  on  Saturdays.  There 
is  an  old  church,   whose  tower  is  crowned   by 


72  LITTLE    CHATTERBOX. 

ivy  ;  and  in  that  ivy  dwell  two  old  owls — white 
feilows,  with  huge,  green,  monster  eyes  :  the 
inside  of  the  belfry  is  alive  with  bats,  and  spar- 
rows nestle  beneath  the  eaves  of  the  old  roof* 
the  churchyard  is  filled  with  humble  graves,  al- 
ways green,  and,  in  the  summer,  bright  with 
starry-eyed  daisies,  and  fragrant  with  the  per- 
fume of  wild  violets.  Even  Chatterbox  is  silent 
when  she  passes  through  that  beautiful  old 
churchyard  ;  and  people  come  to  look  at  an  old 
yew-tree  which  flourishes  there  though  it  is 
nearly  three  hundred  years  old.  But  Fanny 
and  her  sisters  like  the  broad  common,  and  the 
wood,  and  the  nut-copse,  and  the  green  meadows 
at  the  opposite  side  of  the  bridge,  better  than  the 
churchyard  or  the  street  of  the  pretty  village,  or 
the  trim  avenues  of  Eltham  House ;  but,  best 
of  all,  they  like  Dame  Burden's  garden  and  cot- 
tage, which  are  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from 
the  bridge. 

Mary  Browne  never  suffers  them  to  go  into 
any  of  the  cottages  without  their  mother's  leave ; 
but  Mrs.  Eltham  has  said,  '  Mary,  you  may  al- 
ways take  the  children  into  Dame  Burden's 
cottage  :'  and  the  very  evening  they  arrived  at 
Eltham,  they  requested  Mary  to  let  them  cross 
the  bridge,  and  walk  through  the  copse  which 
leads  to  the  dame's.  Dame  Burden's  only 
daughter,  Alice,  is  blind  :  she  had  not  been  al- 
ways so,  but  lost  her  sight  when  she  was  about 
ten  years  old.     Everybody  loved  Ali-^e,  she  was 


LITTLE    CHATTERBOX.  73 

SO  cheerful  under  affliction  ;  and  so  industrious, 
although  blind,  that  she  was  the  principal  support 
of  her  mother.  She  netted,  and  knitted,  and 
plaited,  singing-  all  the  time  like  a  nightingale  ; 
and  when  she  paused,  it  was  to  say  an  affection- 
ate word  to  her  mother,  or  a  sentence  of  grati- 
tude to  God  for  His  goodness  to  a  poor  blind 
girl. 

When  the  young  party  arrived  at  the  end  of 
the  copse,  they  perceived  Alice  seated  at  the 
cottage  door,  knitting  so  rapidly,  that  they  could 
not  distinguish  how  her  fingers  moved.  Be- 
fore they  entered  the  cottage  garden,  Alice  rose 
up  to  meet  them. 

'  Alice,  Alice,'  exclaimed  Chatterbox,  '  how 
did  you  know  we  were  coming  V 

Alice  smiled  :  '  O  Miss  Fanny,'  she  answer- 
ed, •  I  heard  your  voice  ten  minutes  ago,  in  the 
wood.' 

'  There,  Chatterbox — Chatterbox  !' — laughed 
her  little  brother  Harry ;  '  Alice  heard  your  voice 
above  the  hooting  of  the  owls,  and  the  rippling 
of  the  river,  and  the  cackling  of  the  geese, 
and  the  lowing  of  the  cows,  and  the  braying  of 
the  donkey.' 

•  I  wonder  who  is  the  Chatterbox  now  V 
said  Fanny  ;  '  my  tongue  never  went  faster 
than  that  :'  did  it,  Alice  ?' 

'  I  think  it  did,  Miss,'  answered  Alice,  smiling 
so  sweetly,  as  she  turned  her  bright  though 
sightless  face  towards  the   speaker — I   think  it 


74  LITTLE    CHATTERBOX. 

did  ;  but,  fast  or  slow,  it  is  a  great  pleasure  to 
poor  xVlice  to  hear  it  again,  and  to  hear  you  all  : 
this  IS  Miss  Eltham,  I  know,'  she  continued, 
stretching  her  hand  in  the  direction  where  the 
eldest  young  lady  stood.  '  Dear  me  !  why  you 
are  as  tall  as  I  am  !  And  there  is  Miss  So- 
phia :  and  here  is  Miss  Fanny :  how  you  are 
grown,  dear  ;  and  your  hair — it  is  as  long  a- 
gain    as   it   was   when  you    left  Eltham  !' 

Fanny  ran  from  beneath  her  gentle  hand, 
which  was  as  soft  and  as  white  as  her  own  mo- 
ther's, and  bounded  into  the  cottage,  calling 
Dame  Burden  !  Dame  Burden  !'  Although  the 
dame  was  very  deaf,  she  heard  Fanny's  voice, 
and  greeted  her  most  kindly.  '  Here  is  Dame 
Burden  ! '  exclaimed  the  Chatterbox  :  '  here  she 
is,  Sophy ! — Mary,  here  is  dear  Dame  Burden  : 
but  she  is  looking  ill:'  and,  lowering  her  voice, 
so  that  the  dame  should  not  hear  her,  but  at  the 
same  time  quite  forgetting,  that  although  Alice 
was  blind,  she  was  not  deaf,  she  added  :  '  I  am 
sure  she  will  not  live  long  :  she  ought  to  have 
the  doctor  immediately.  See  how  pale  she  is  ; 
and  how  lame  !' 

'  0,  Miss  Fanny,  why  will  you  speak  so 
thoug-htlessly  ?'  said  Mary.  In  a  moment 
Fanny  felt  she  had  done  wrong,  and  saw  how 
she  had  alarmed  poor  blind  Alice,  but  spoken 
words  cannot  be  recalled. 

The  poor  blind  girl,  who  loved  her  mother, 
not  only  because    she  was  her  mother,   but  be- 


LITTLE    CHATTERBOX.  7o 

cause  she  was  the  only  precious  thing  she  had 
in  the  whole  world  to  love,  turned  her  sightless 
eyes  on  the  speaker,  and  as  quickly  tears  gush- 
ed from  them.  '  My  mother  ill ! — pale  ! — lame  !' 
she  sobbed  :  '  how  can  it  be  ?  her  voice  is  not 
feebler  than  it  was  !  I  cannot  feel  paleness ; 
and  when  I  pass  my  hand  over  her  dear  face, 
it  seems  to  me  the  same  as  ever.  I  can  hear 
the  halt  when  she  .walks,  but  I  do  not  think  it 
increases.  0,  ladies — Mnry  Brow^ne — do  tell 
me  truth  :    is  my  dear  mother  so  changed  ?' 

'  Alice,'  said  Miss  Eltham,  '  I  am  very  sorry 
that  these  thoughtless  words,  spoken  by  my 
heedless  sister,  should  cause  you  so  much  emo- 
tion. We  have  been  away  for  six  months,  and 
I  really  think  that  little  Chatterbox  has  forgot- 
ten how  your  mother  looked  when  we  saw  her 
last.  I  do  not  perceive  any  change,  except  that 
she  may  be  a  little  paler  ;  but  I  only  wish, 
Alice,  you  could  see  hoAV  bright  and  animated 
the  good  dame  is  looking  at  this  moment,  and 
how  anxious  to  find  out  what  we  are  talking  n- 
bout  :  do  not  let  her  observe  your  tears,  Alice  ; 
for  she  could  never  bear  to  see  you  in  trouble.' 
The  poor  blind  girl  wiped  her  eyes,  and  kis- 
sed Miss  Ehham's  hand  ;  and  Dame  Burden 
bustled  about  to  get  them  some  fruit  and  goat's 
milk  :  while  little  Chatterbox,  eager  to  repair 
the  evil  she  had  done,  crept  to  the  side  of  porr 
Alice. 

'  My  sister  is  right,'  she  said  ;  '  I   dare   say    I 


76  LITTLE    CHATTERBOX. 

did  forget  how  she  looked  Avhen  we  Avent  away 
which  you  must  remember   is   six  months  ago 
and  I  am  sure  I  did  not  mean  to  give  you  pain  : 
will  you  forgive  me  ?' 

'  O  yes,  Miss,  to  be  sure  I  will,'  she  replied  : 
'  but  I  am  sure  what  you  said  is  true.  Hush  !' 
and  she  listened  for  her  mother's  step.  '  Yes, 
slie  certainly  presses  more  heavily  upon  that  foot 
than  she  used.  She  is  more  lame,  and  yet  I 
did  not  find  it  out  before  :  she  should  have 
seen  the  doctor  if  I  had.' 

'  Indeed,  Alice,  you  are  mistaken,'  said  Fan- 
ny ;  '  she  is  as  active  and  kind  as  possible.' 

'  Yes,'  observed  the  poor  girl,  in  her  soft  low 
voice,  '  I  well  know  she  is  kind.  Miss  —  oh,  so 
kind  !  I  could  not  tell  you  all  her  acts  of  love 
and  tenderness  if  I  were  to  talk  a  whole  sum- 
mer day.  She  may  not  look  so  to  you.  Miss, 
but  to  me  she  seems  bright  as  an  angel.' 

Fanny  could  hardly  forbear  smiling  at  the 
idea  that  the  brown,  shrivelled  woman,  dressed 
in  black  stuff  and  a  mob  cap,  was  '  bright  as  an 
angel  ;'  but  she  had  the  prudence  not  to  wound 
poor  Alice  a  second  time  ;  and  Mary  Browne 
grieved  to  see  the  anxious  expression  that  dis- 
turbed the  ordinary  calmness  of  Alice's  face,  and 
how  she  listened  for  every  tone  of  her  mother's 
voice  and  every  step  she  made  :  at  last,  while 
the  children  were  otherwise  engaged,  she  drew 
close  to  her  side.  '  Alice,'  she  said,  *  do  not 
distress  yourself  because  of  Miss  Fanny's  words 


L1TTI.E    CHATTERBOX.  It 

they  were  spoken,  as  she  too  often  speaks,  fool- 
ishly ;  and  I  assure  you  there  is  no  cause  for 
your  anxiety.' 

'  Mary,'  she  answered,  '  I  have  often  found 
that  children's  words  are  the  words  of  truth,  and 
I  am  convinced  my  mother  is  ill  ;  but  it  cannot 
be  that  she  will  not  live  long  :  —  surely  God 
would  not   take  her  from  me  !' 

Mary  reasoned  with  her,  and  endeavored  to 
assure  her  that  Fanny  had  spoken  merely  from 
the  desire  of  talking  ;  but  she  found  that  poor 
Alice,  naturally  nervous,  and  always  dreading 
lest  any  thing  should  happen  to  her  mother,  was 
not  to  be  convinced.  The  foolish  words,  spoken 
at  random,  had  done,  what  foolish  words  often 
do — very  great  mischief.  A  strong-minded  per- 
son would  not  have  suffered  as  Alice  did  ;  but 
you  must  remember,  she  could  not  see  her 
mother,  and  she  knew,  by  experience,  that  the 
dame,  when  indisposed,  always  endeavored  to 
conceal  it  from  her  beloved  and  only  child. 

The  young  party  quitted  the  cottage  dispirited 
and  annoyed  ;  for  they  left  the  poor  blind  girl 
endeavoring  to  restrain  her  tears.  Chatterbox 
was  sorely  grieved  at  first,  and  listened  for  some 
time  attentively  to  her  eldest  sister's  advice,  who 
pointed  out  to  her  the  evil  of  speaking  at  ran- 
dom. '  I  cannot  tell  you,'  she  said,  '  how  fre- 
quently you  hurt  people's  feelings  by  your  in- 
considerate words.  Father  was  going  to  give 
the  coachman  warning"  the  other  day,  in   conse- 


78  LITTLE    CHATTERBOX. 

quence  of  something  you  misunderstood  and 
talked  about  :  and  poor  Jane  Conway  told  me, 
that  though  her  present  employer  is  quite  con- 
vinced of  her  honesty,  she  never  can  forget 
that  she  was  once  considered  a  thief,  from  your 
misrepresentation. ' 

'  I  am  sure,  sister,'  answered  Fanny,  '  I  nev- 
er intended  it  ;  and  I  explained  all  about  it  to 
Jane,  and  to  her  mistress.  I  did  not  think  she 
Avould  ever  feel  it  again,  after  all  I  cried,  and 
she  knew  I  did  not  intend  it.' 

'  Tears,  my  love,  cannot  wash  out  words  ; 
and  words  make  wounds,  more  hastily  than  they 
can  heal  them.  You  have  been  told,  that  all 
those  who  talk  a  great  deal,  are  apt  to  mingle 
truth  and  falsehood  together  ;  and  this  must  be 
especially  the  case  with  you,  who  cannot  un- 
derstand   all  you   hear,    or  all  you  see.' 

'  I  do  my  best,  I'm  sure,'  sobbed  poor  Fanny  ; 
'  I  do  my  very  best.  Father  said,  the  other 
day,  I  was  like  a  note  of  interrogation.' 

'  Not  quite,'  observed  Sophy,  '■for  that  waits 
for  an  aiisioer.'' 

'  It  is  the  old  story  over  and  over  again  about 
me,'  continued  Fanny,  pettishly  ;  '  and  you  tell 
me    the    same  thing  over  and  over  again.' 

'  When  you  conquer  that  love  of  chatterino-, 
my  own  dear  Fanny,'  observed  her  sister,  '  Ave 
shall  find  it  difficult  to  discover  a  fault  in  one  we 
love  so  dearly.' 

The  young  folk   frequently   paused   on  their 


LITTLE    CHATTERBOX.  79 

homeward  walk  :  the  fresh  air,  the  variety  and 
beauty  of  the  trees,  the  singing  of  the  birds,  and 
the  clouds,  tinged  by  the  beams  of  the  setting 
sun  into  every  variety  of  rose  and  saffron  color, 
delighted  them  much  ;  and  they  all  agreed  m 
thinking  the  country  far  more  charming  than 
the  town.  By  degrees  the  blind  girl  and  her 
mother  were  forgotten  by  all  except  Mary 
Browne.  Harry  kept  blowing  the  '  puffs,'  as 
he  called  them,  off  the  dandelion  heads,  to  as- 
certain what  o'clock  it  was  :  Miss  Eltham  gath- 
ered wild  flowers,  and  told  their  botanical  names 
and  properties  to  her  sisters,  thus  rendering  the 
walk  as  profitable  as  it  was  pleasing.  Fanny 
had  remained  tolerably  silent  (for  her)  for  some 
time,  until  she  saw  a  dog  run  in  among  some 
sheep  that  were  grazing  in  a  field  near  the  com- 
mon, and  after  setting  them  all  scampering,  run 
out  again,  barking  and  wagging  his  tail  as  if  he 
had  performed  a  brave  and  gallant  action  ;  and 
she  then  began  to  talk  about  sheep  and  shep- 
herds, and  their  dogs,  exaggerating  as  she  talk- 
ed on,  until,  at  last,  forgetting  the  advice  she 
had  received,  she  burst  into  her  usual  torrent 
of  words,  some  A\'ith  meaning,  and  some  with- 
out ;  —  now  uttering  one  extravagance  and  then 
another. 

'  What  is  that  you  say,  Chatter,  about  a  rabbit 
a  yard  in  length,  and  a  stone  in  weight  ?"  in- 
quired little  Harry,  who  was  three  years  young- 
er than  Fanny. 


80  LITTLE    CHATTERBOX. 

'  Indeed,  Harry,  Charles  Jeffrey  said  in  the 
square,  one  day,  that  he  had  a  rabbit  that  waa 
a  yard  long,  and  weighed  a  stone.' 

'  Did  he,  Mary  ? '  inquired  Harry,  who  had 
learned  to  distrust  what  his  sister  said  ;  and 
the  worst  of  it  was  she  did  not  feel  the  degrada- 
tion of  being  doubted. 

*  I  did  not  hear  him  say  that.  Master  Harry,' 
replied  Mary. 

'  There  ! '  said  the  boy.     '  What  did  he  say  ? ' 

'  He  said  what  I  say,'  persisted  Fanny,  '  a 
rabbit — a  white  rabbit — with  lop  ears,  pink  eyes, 
and  a  roman  nose  ;  he  did,  indeed,  but  all  rab- 
bits have  roman  noses  ;  and  it  was  a  yard 
long,  and  weighed  a  stone.' 

'  No,  Miss  Fanny,  I  beg  your  pardon ;  he  said 
it  was  so  large  that,  if  it  had  lived,  he  thought 
it  might  have  grown  to  be  a  yard  long,  and  a 
stone  in  weight,'  said  Mary. 

'  Oh,  oh,'  laughed  Harry. 

'  Fanny,  Fanny ! '  exclaimed  Miss  Eltham,  in 
a  reproving  voice. 

'  Well,  it  is  pretty  much  the  same  thing,  is 
it  not  ? '  replied  the  exaggerating  little  girl ;  for 
you  see ' 

*  Stop,  my  dear,'  said  her  sister,  '  I  must 
insist  upon  your  attending  to  me.  If  I  said 
my  sister  Fanny  is  as  tall  as  mother,  and  much 
stouter,  would  that  be  true  ? ' 

*  No,  sister,  certainly  not,'  replied  the  little 
maid  ;  '  and ' 


LITTLE    CHATTERBOX.  SI 

'  Attend  a  moment,  do,  dear  Fanny ;  for  iWs 
talking  and  exaggerating  will  render  you  not 
only  despicable  but  dangerous,'  persisted  Miss 
Eltham:  'but  if  I  said  my  sister  Fanny  is  tall 
and  large  of  her  age,  and  one  of  these  days  may 
be  as  tall  and  as  stout,  if  not  taller  and  stouter 
than  mother  is  now,  would  not  that  be  true  ?' 

'  Yes,  sister ;  but  it  is  very  hard  of  you  to 
sav  that  I  may  become  not  only  despicable  but 
dangerous;  I  intend  no  harm.' 

'  Again,  my  dear  little  sister,  I  must  entreat 
you  to  listen  to  me.  When  you  cannot  believe 
Avhat  a  person  tells  you,  do  you  not  despise  him  ? ' 

'  But,  sister ' 

'  Now,  Fanny,  I  will  ha^'e  no  shuffling ;  do 
you,  or  do  you  not,  despise  a  person  who  tells 
you  an  untruth  ?  At  all  events,  you  lose  all 
faith,  all  trust  in  him  ;  you  do  not  believe  him 
when  he  tells  you  the  truth,  if  you  have  more 
than  once  proved  that  what  he  said  was  untrue.' 

'  Well,'  stammered  Fanny,  who  saw  the  pur- 
port of  her  sister's  words,  '  I  believe  you  are 
right.' 

'  As  to  not  intending  harm,  that  is  better 
for  yourself ;  but  if  you  do  harm,  those  who 
suffer,  do  not  profit  by  the  absence  of  all  in- 
tention. Language  is  given  us  to  instruct,  to 
enliven,  to  soothe,  to  cheer,  to  divert  each  other, 
and  to  increase  the  happiness  of  our  fellow-crea- 
tures by  words  of  truth  and  affection;  not  a? 
6 


82  LITTLE    CHATTERBOX. 

power  to  be  exerted  in  noise,  in  the  cause  of  follv, 
or ' 

I  do  not  know  how  Miss  Eltham  would 
have  concluded  her  sentence,  for  it  was  inter- 
rupted by  a  most  painful  proof  of  the  mischief 
arising  from  thoughtless  words. 

The  young  party  had  loitered  on  their  home- 
ward way,  and  did  not  arrive  at  the  principal 
bridge,  I  have  already  mentioned,  until  the  beau- 
tiful sunset,  that  decked  the  heavens  in  such 
glowing  colors,  had  faded,  as  sunsets  must,  into 
the  grey  twilight,  which,  in  this  country,  is  the 
prelude  both  to  night  and  morning.  Harry 
wished  very  much  to  have  been  permitted  to 
return  by  the  foot-bridge,  and  urged  how  much 
shorter  was  the  path  than  the  road ;  but  Mary 
would  not  suffer  him  to  do  so,  as,  if  his  foot 
slipped  on  the  planks,  unless  he  held  the  rope 
firmly,  he  might  roll  under  the  rope  into  the 
river,  which,  though  little  more  than  a  broad 
brawling  stream  in  some  places,  was  there  both 
deep  and  dangerous.  They  had  not  advanced 
more  than  a  yard  or  two  on  the  good  old  bridge, 
when,  looking  toward  the  foot-bridge,  Miss  El- 
tham and  Mary  Browne  saw,  almost  at  the 
same  instant,  Alice  Burden,  the  blind  girl,  just 
in  the  act  of  stepping  on  it,  evidently  feeling, 
with  outstretched  arm,  for  the  directing  and  pro- 
tecting rope  ;  the  other  hand  held  the  ribbon 
by  which  her  little  dog  guided  her  steps.  They 
all  paused  to  watch  her  movements. 


Little  C:iattarco2  — i   f;e  8d 


LITTLE    CHATTERBOX.  83 

'  How  very  foolish  of  her  to  come  this  distance 
by  herself,'  said  Chatterbox ;  '  it  will  be  quite 
dark  before  she  gets  back.' 

'  My  dear  Fanny,'  observed  Miss  Eltham, 
'  how  silly  that  is,  dark  and  light  you  know  are 
e  the  same  to  her  ;  but  it  is  certainly  much  too 
late  for  her  to  be  out  by  herself  ;  and  she  ought 
not  to  venture  upon  that  bridge,  which  Mary 
Browne  does  not  think  safe,  even  for  those  who 
can  see.' 

'  I  never  knew  her  mother  permit  her  to  be 
out  so  late — although  Beau  is  such  a  sensible 
little  dog  that  he  guides  her  everywhere.  I 
think,  Miss  Eltham,'  continued  Mary,  '  I  will 
ask  one  of  the  servants  to  go  to  that  end  of  the 
village  and  see  her  home  :  I  cannot  imagine 
why  she  is  out  by  herself.' 

At  that  moment  a  bird — a  wild  duck,  or  a 
water-hen  —  rose  from  the  sedges  and  long  tan- 
gled plants  that  grew  in  such  luxuriant  beauty 
beneath  the  banks  which  divided  the  bridges, 
and  flew  screaming  over  the  river.  Poor  little 
Beau  forgot  his  mistress,  and  sprang  forward, 
barking  at  the  fugitive  ;  he  sprang  rapidly  and 
thoughtlessly,  and  so  suddenly  it  all  occurred, 
that  he  was  struggling  over  the  planks,  support- 
ed by  the  slight  ribbon,  before,  even  if  Alice  had 
had   sight,  she    could  have  drawTi  him  back.' 

'  Let  him  go,  Alice  !  let  him  go  !'  shouted 
Miss  Eltham  and  Mary  Browne  together  :  '  let 
him  go,  or  you  will  be  over   yourself  1'       But 


84  LITTLE    CHATTERBOX. 

Alice  loved  the  little  animal,  who  had  been  her 
guide  for  more  than  eight  years  —  she  valued 
her  poor  dumb  friend  too  highly  to  '  let  him  go  :' 
she  knelt  at  the  side,  and  pulled  the  ribbon  care- 
fully. 

'  She  has  him  now !'  exclaimed  Harry  :  'what 
a  brave  girl ! ' 

'  No,  no — he  has  slipped  again  ;  poor  fellow, 
how  he  struggles  !'  said   Sophy. 

'  Let  him  go  !'  repeated  Mary  Browne,  and  her 
voice  was  a  scream.  '  I  knew  it,'  she  added, 
while  the  young  ladies  were  rendered  dumb  by 
the  occurrence  — '  I  knew  how  it  would  be — she 
is  over  herself  !'  In  speechless  agony.  Miss  El- 
tham  saw  poor  Alice  rise  to  the  surface  of  the  wa- 
ter after  her  first  plunge  ;  Sophy  and  Fanny 
hid  their  faces  in  their  dress  ;  and  Harry,  an  em- 
bryo man,  ran  along  the  bridge,  shouting, 
'  Help  !    help  !' 

When  Miss  Eltham  looked  again,  the  water 
was  so  clear,  that  she  saw  Alice  floating,  or,  she 
believed,  rolling  along  towards  the  very  arch 
upon  which  she  stood.  Again  the  poor  girl  rose, 
and  extended  her  arms.  Suddenly  Miss  El- 
tham's  presence  of  mind  returned  :  she  called 
loudly  for  assistance,  and  rushed  down  the  bank, 
so  as  to  meet,  as  it  were,  the  blind  girl  as  the 
current  bore  her  through  the  arch  ;  for  the  wa- 
ters seemed  to  deal  gently  with  their  prey  :  but 
one  stronger  and  more  useful  was  there  before 
her — even  Mary  Browne.      She  had  waded  the 


MTTLE    CHATTERBOX.  86 

stream,  and,  holding  by  the  strong  ann  of  a  tree, 
which  bent  most  gracefully,  and  what  was  bet- 
ter still,  most  usefully,  into  the  water,  she  caught 
Alice  by  her  long  floating  hair  ;  and  in  less 
than  a  minute  the  blind  girl  —  ay,  and  her  dog 
Beau  —  were  on  the  bank.  It  was  some  little 
time  before  Alice  was  restored  to  consciousness, 
and  knew  who  breathed  upon  her  cheek  —  what 
warm  soft  hands  chafed  her  temples,  and  ■wrung 
the  wafer  from  her  hair.  The  first  thing  that 
seemed  really  to  restore  her  was  her  little  dog 
placing  his  paws  upon  her  shoulder,  and  licking 
her  face  all  over  with  his  Jittle  red  tongue,  as  if 
requesting  pardon  for  his  rashness; — she  put 
her  arm  round  him,  and  kissed  his  wet  coat. 

'  And  why  did  you  go  out  by  yourself,  dear 
Alice,  at  this  time  in  the  evening  ?'  inquired 
Chatterbox,  as  the  servants  and  some  of  the  vil- 
lagers Avere  about  to  carry  the  blind  girl  to  El- 
tham  House,  that  she  might  have  dry  clothes, 
and  be  returned  safely  and  comfortably  to  her 
mother,  if  possible,  before  the  dame  had  beei 
made  aware  of  the  danger  she  had  so  providen- 
tially escaped.  '  Why  did  you  venture  out  by 
yourself,  Alice  ? — why  ? — tell  me.' 

The  poor  girl  turned  her  blind  eyes  towards 
Fanny  Eltham,  and  replied  :  '  Why,  Miss,  you 
said  my  mother  could  not  live  —  and  looked 
pale  —  and  was  more  lame  —  and  ought  to  have 
a  doctor  ;  and  unless  it  was  really  so,  I  knew  a 
child  —  a  young   lady  —  would   not   say   it.     1 


86  LITTLE    CHATTERBOX. 

could  believe  you  ;  and  I  knew  they  wanted, 
through  kindness,  to  deceive  me.  My  mother 
went  to  fold  the  kids  ;  I  felt  I  should  have  no 
rest  until  the  doctor  saw  her  ;  and  as  night  and 
day  are  alike  to  the  poor  blind  girl,  and  IBeau,  I 
thought,  was  steady,  and  knew  the  way,  I  re- 
solved to  seek  the  doctor  myself.  That  was 
how  I  came  to  be  out,  Miss  Fanny  —  all  through 
your  words.' 

Poor  Fanny !  this  was  indeed  a  serious  lesson. 
The  various  warnings  which  she  had  received 
as  to  what  her  chattering  might  lead  to,  rang  in 
her  ears  :  her  head  whirled  round  ;  she  dared 
not  look  up,  for  she  felt  that  every  eye  was  fixed 
upon  her:  her  thoughtless  words  had  led  almost 
to  the  death  of  a  helpless  innocent  being,  whom 
she  had  loved  all  her  life,  and  who  had  heaped 
little  gifts  and  acts  of  kindness  upon  her  from 
the  moment  she  was  able  to  climb  the  blind 
girl's  knee.  Could  it  be  that  words — mere 
words  —  had  done  this  ? 

*  O  Alice,  Alice  !'  she  exclaimed,  passionate- 
ly ;  '  can  you  ever  forgive  me  ?' 

Bitter  as  was  the  lesson,  it  was  not  brief. 
Anxiety  for  her  mother,  and  the  violent  shock 
her  delicate  frame  had  sustained,  threw  Alice 
into  a  fever,  from  which  she  recovered  slowly. 

The  last  letter  I  received  from  Mrs.  Eltham 
contains  a  passage  which  made  me  say,  at  the 
commencement   of  this   little   story,  that  I  had 


LITTLE    CHATTERBOX.  87 

every  reason  to  believe  my  little  friend  Fanny 
would  improve  rapidly. 

'  You  will  rejoice  to  hear,'  writes  this  amiable 
lady,  '  that  Alice  is  quite  well  again,  sitting  in 
her  old  place,  knitting  and  netting,  and  spin- 
ning and  plaiting,  as  usual  :  singing  too  ;  for 
she  is  convinced  that  her  mother  is  not  ill  :  but 
will  not  again  trust  herself  to  Beau's  guidance 
when  crossing  the  foot-bridge.  I  can  never  be 
sufficiently  thankful  to  the  Almighty  that  her 
life  was  spared  :  nor  can  we  do  too  much  for 
Mary  Browne,  whose  presence  of  mind  and  de- 
.tcrmined  bravery  were  the  means*of  her  rescue. 

'  My  poor  child  has  received  a  lesson  which 
I  am  convinced  has  had,  and  will  continue  to 
have,  the  most  beneficial  effects  on  her  charac- 
ter. You  may  imagine  what  she  suffered,  day 
after  day,  while  Alice  continued  so  very  ill  : 
nothing  could  exceed  her  anxiety  :  she  prayed 
constantly  for  her  recovery,  and  relinquished 
all  her  pocket-money  —  indeed,  all  her  luxuries 
—  to  contribute  to  the  blind  girl's  comforts  :  this 
her  naturally  good  disposition  w6uld  make  ber 
do.  But  now  that  danger  is  over,  it  is  delight- 
ful to  see  how  carefully  she  watches,  not  others, 
but  herself ;  and  she  has  requested  us  all. 
whenever  we  see  any  return  of  her  foible  (I  call 
it  by  too  mild  a  name),  to  reprove  it  by  the 
one  word  '  Alice.'  I  have  only  had  occasion  lo 
do  so  once ;  and  then  she  turned  pale,  and  burrt 
into  tears,  thanking  me,  when  she  could  speak 


88 


LITTLE    CHATTERBO^• 


I  coustamtly  observe  that  she  presses  her  finger 
on  her  lip,  as  if  to  keep  in  her  words  :  and  we 
never,  by  any  chance,  now  reproach  her  by  cal- 
ling her  *  Little  Chatterbox.' 


PERSEVERANCK. 


PERSEVERANCE: 


OR  GOD  HELPS  THEM  WHO  HELP  THEMSELVES. 


BT  CHABI.BS   CO'WTJEN   CLABK. 


AME  Barton  was  an  honest, 

hard-working    woman,   who 

lived  with  her  husband  and 

son   in   a   small   hut   under 

Dover  cliffs.      Her  husband 

/  >    '  "'il    ^^^  ^  fisherman,  and  as  in- 

^^/,VrivIy ^N^  \      dustrious  as  herself;  for  he 

labored  night  and  day  at  his 

trade  to  support  his  wife   and   child,  till  one 

dreadful  day  he  was  drowned  in  endeavoring  to 

save  the  crew  of  a  ship  that  was  wrecked  in 

sight  of  the  cottage. 

About  three  months  after  his  death,  as  little 
John  Barton  was  sitting  one  evening  mending 
a  net  for  a  neighbor  opposite  to  his  mother,  he 
suddenly  exclaimed,  '  O  mother  !  how  tired  you 
must  be  of  spinning!  you  have  sat  at  your  wheel 
ever  .since  four  o'clock  this  morning,  and  now  it 


90  PERSEVERANCE. 

is  seven  o'clock,  yet  you  have  hardly  stirred 
from  your  work.' 

'  It  is  the  only  means  I  have  of  getting  you  a 
bit  of  bread,  Johnny,  since  your  poor  father  left 
us.' 

'  Don't  cry,  mother,'  said  little  John,  running 
towards  her  ;  '  but  I  do  so  wish  that  I  could  do 
something  myself  to  earn  money  enough  to  keep 
you  from  sticking  so  close  to  that  bur — bur — 
burring  wheel.  I  mean,  something  of  real  use 
to  you,'  continued  he,  "as  his  mother  looked  at 
the  net  which  he  had  been  mending  ;  '  I  wish  I 
could  do  something  better  than  mending  the 
meshes  of  old  nets.' 

'  You  do  enough  for  your  age,  dear,'  said  his 
mother ;  '  and  we  shall  manage  to  go  on  quite 
well  while  the  summer  lasts  ;  all  I  dread  to  think 
of  is  the  winter.' 

'  O  mother!  if  you  should  have  your  rheuma- 
tism come  on  then,  what  would  you  do?  I  wish 
I  were  older,  to  work  for  you.' 

'  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  it,'  answered  his 
mother,  weeping ;  '  if  I  should  have  my  old  com- 
plaint come  back,  I  should  not  be  able  to  work 
any  longer  ;  anH  then  who  k  to  take  care  of  my 
poor  Johnny  ?  I  have  not  a  friend  in  the  w^orld 
that  I  could  send  to  for  help,  if  I  were  ill.' 

'  Don't  you  recollect,  mother,  the  French 
gentleman  you  have  often  told  me  about?  Per- 
haps he  would  help  you,  if  he  could  know  you 
are  so  poor.' 


PERSEVERANCE.  91 

'  But  he  lives  in  Paris,  and  I  can't  write ;  so 
how  is  he  to  know  the  state  I  am  in?'  answered 
hrs  mother  ;  '  or  else  I  am  sure  he  would  never 
suffer  any  one  belonging-  to  the  deliverer  of  his 
child  to  die  of  want.  Besides,  I  well  remember 
— for  many's  the  time  I  have  made  my  dear 
husband  tell  me  the  tale — when  the  child  fell 
over  the  side  of  the  vessel  which  Avas  just  ready 
to  sail,  and  your  dear  father,  plunging  into  the 
waves,  brought  him  back  his  infant  safe  and 
sound,  and  smiling  up  in  his  face  ;  the  gentle- 
man, after  bending  his  head  for  a  minute  over 
the  dear  dripping  babe,  to  hide  his  streaming 
eyes — for,  let  a  gentleman  be  never  so  manly,  it 
is  more  than  he  can  do  to  keep  from  crying  like 
one  of  us,  when  he  sees  his  own  flesh  and  blood 
saved  from  death — he  turned  to  your  poor  father, 
and  said,  in  a  flattering-like,  yet  grand  kind  of 
voice,  too, — '  Barton,'  says  he,  *  you  have  done 
more  for  me  than  if  you  had  saved  my  own  life ; 
I  can  never  hope  to  repay  you  for  the  happiness 

you  have  given  me  at  this  moment,  yet ' 

Before  the  gentleman  could  finish  what  he  was 
going  to  say,  your  good  father  turned  away, 
saying,  '  Lord  bless  your  honor,  don't  thank  me  ; 
it's  no  more  than  what  you'd  have  done  for  my 
Johnny,  I'll  swear,  if  you'd  seen  him  drop  over- 
board, like  your  young  thing  there.'  Your 
father  was  proud  enough  then,  Johnny,  and  he 
told  me  he  guessed  that  the  gentleman  was  go- 
ing to  give  him  money,  so  he  jumped  into  his 


92  PERSEVERANCE. 

boat  which  lay  alongside,  and  the  vessel  sailed 
away  immediately,  and  he  never  heard  anything 
more  of  the  gentleman ;  but  though  your  father 
didn't  want  anything  at  that  time  from  anybody, 
being  able  to  gain  his  own  living  comfortably 
and  honestly,  much  less  to  have  a  reward  for 
having  saved  an  innocent  fellow-creature's  life; 
yet  I  can't  help  wishing  that  he'd  made  a  friend 
of  the  gentleman,  who  couldn't  but  be  grateful.' 

'  How  long  ago  was  this,  mother  ? '  said  John, 
after  thinking  a  little  while. 

'  It  was  eight  years  since,  come  midsummer- 
day  ;  I  should  surely  remember  .it,'  continued 
Dame  Barton,  '  for  when  my  good  John  Barton 
came  home  with  an  honest  flush  on  his  brow,  and 
first  told  me  the  story,  I  looked  on  you,  and 
thanked  God  that  it  was  not  my  own  dear  John- 
ny who  had  run  the  chance  of  being  drowned, 
instead  of  the  little  stranger.  You  were  then  a 
little  more  than  two  years  old,  for  to-morrow's 
the  3d  of  June,  you  know,  your  birth  day,  John- 
ny ;  and  then  you  will  be  exactly  ten  years  old.' 

'  Do  you  think  the  gentleman  has  forgotten 
what  my  father  did  for  him,  mother?'  asked 
Johnny,  after  another  and  a  longer  pause. 

'  I  don't  think  he  has,  but  I  can't  say,  for 
gentlefolk  are  apt  to  be  forgetful.  Perhaps 
however  he  has  never  been  to  England  since 
then.' 

Little  John  said  no  more,  but  Avent  on  very 
busily  with  his  work,  so  busily  indeed  that  when 


PERSEVERANCE.  93 

his  mother  looked  at  him  again,  she  saw  that  he 
had  finished  his  job. 

'  Why,  how  quickly  you  have  worked,  John- 
ny,' said  she  ;  '  you  didn't  think  to  have  done 
that  net  till  to-m&rrow  morning,  did  you  ?' 

'  No,  mother,'  answered  John  ;  '  but  when  I 
am  talking  to  you,  and  thinking  hard,  it's  sur- 
prising how  the  work  gets  on  ;  I'm  glad  I've 
done  it,  though,'  continued  he,  rising  to  put  by 
his  mesh  and  twine ;  '  because  I  shall  be  able 
to  take  it  to  Bill  Haul  to-night,  instead  of  to- 
morrow, as  I  promised.' 

'  But  it's  getting  dark,  dear,  I  am  going  to  put 
away  my  wheel,'  said  his  mother. 

'  O,  it's  not  too  late,  mother,  I  shall  be  there 
and  back  before  you  have  put  by  your  spinning- 
wheel,  and  got  the  haddocks  out  ready  for  sup- 
per ;  so  good  bye,  good  bye,  mother,'  added  he, 
seeing  that  she  did  not  prevent  his  going,  and 
off  he  ran. 

'  He's  a  dear,  good  little  soul,  and  that's  the 
truth  on't,'  said  Dame  Barton  to  herself,  as  she 
listened  to  the  eager  footsteps  of  the  boy,  which 
crashed  among  the  shingles,  growing  fainter  and 
fainter  every  minute,  till  at  last  their  sound 
could  no  longer  be  distinguished  from  the  rest- 
less washing  of  the  waves  on  the  beach.  *  I'm 
sure  I  oughtn't  to  be  the  one  to  check  him  when 
he's  doing  a  goodnatured  turn  for  a  neighbor.' 

It  was  a  beautiful  evening ;  and  as  little  John 
Barton  ran  along  the  beach,  he  took  off  his  hat. 


94  PERSEVERANCE. 

and  unbuttoned  his  shirt  collar  that  he  might 
enjoy  the  cool  breeze,  for  the  day  had  been  very 
sultry. 

'  This  air  blows  towards  France,'  said  he,  half 
aloud,  '  for  I  know  that  France  lies  over  there 
across  the  blue  waters,  and  Paris  is  in  France, 
and  he  lives  in  Paris.  O,  how  I  do  wish,'  ex- 
claimed he,  passionately,  and  suddenly  stopping 
short,  and  straining  his  eyes  over  the  wide  sea, 
'  how  I  do  wish  I  could  go  to  Paris — I  would 
find  him  out — I  would  see  him — I  would  tell 
him — I  will,  I  must  go,'  said  he,  interrupting 
himself,  and  again  running  forward.  When  he 
arrived  at  the  cottage  where  his  friend  Bill  Haul 
lived,  he  found  a  strange  man  there,  speaking 
with  Bill's  father,  whom  he  did  not  at  first  take 
any  notice  of,  but  kept  on  talking  with  Bill  about 
the  net ;  however  presently  he  noticed  that  the 
man  talked  in  a  different  tone  from  what  he 
usually  heard,  and  used  his  arms  very  violently 
while  he  spoke,  and,  at  last,  John  thought  he 
heard  him  say  the  word  France,  though  in  the 
the  same  curious  voice  he  had  before  noticed. 

'  Isn't  that  man  a  Frenchman,  Bill,  that's 
talking  to  your  father  ? '  asked  John. 

'  Yes,  he's  wanting  father  to  buy  a  cargo  of 
apples  and  eggs  he  has  brought  from  France, 
and  he's  in  a  hurry  to  strike  his  bargain,  be- 
cause he  wants  to  be  aboard  again  by  four 
o'clock  to-morrow  morning ;  but  never  mind 
him.  Jack,  he  speaks  such  gibberish,  that — ' 


PERSEVERANCE.  95 

'  Did  you  say  he  was  going  to  France  at  four 
to-morrow  morning,  B*!!  ? '  interrupted  little 
John. 

'  Yes,  the  tide  serves  t.hem  to  make  the  harbor 
of  Boulogne,  I  heard  him  say,  so  he  wants  to  be 
off — do  but  hear  what  a  chattering  the  French 
Mounseer  makes,'  said  Bill,  who  was  about 
fourteen  years  of  age,  and  thought  it  looked 
manly  to  ridicule  a  Frenchman.  By  this  time 
the  bargain  was  concluded  between  the  fisher- 
man and  the  apple-merchant ;  and  as  the  latter 
left  the  cottage,  John  Barton  took  rather  a  hasty 
leave  of  his  friend,  and  run  after  the  stranger, 
whom  he  overtook  just  as  he  reached  the  beach. 

'  Sir,  Mr.  Frenchman,'  said  John,  as  he  ap- 
proached him,  somewhat  out  of  breath,  '  Sir,  I 
want  to  speak  to  you,  if  you  please.' 

'  Heh,  what  you  say,  littel  boy  ?'  said  the  man 
turning  round. 

'  A'n't  you  going  to  France,  sir  ?'  said  John, 

'  Yes,  I  am,  to-morrow  morning ;  but  what 
den,  my  littel  shild  ? ' 

'  Why,  sir,  I  want  very  much  to  go  to  France, 
and  if  you'd  be  so  good  as  to  take  me  in  your 
boat — ' 

'  Take  you  in  my  boat !  what  for  should  I  do 
that  ? '  answered  the  Frenchman. 

'  Wky,  I  can  give  you  nothing  for  taking  me, 
to  be  sure,'  said  John  ;  '  I  have  neither  money 
nor  anytliing  else  of  my  own,  to  give  aw.iyi  bu( 
I  will  work  as  well  and  hard  as  ever  I  can  ;    i 


96  PERSEVERANCE. 

can  mend  nets,  and  I  can  tar  boats,  and  1  can 
splice  ropes,  and  I  can — ' 

'  Stop,  stop  !  stay  ! '  interrupted  the  French- 
man ;  '  I  was  not  linking  of  what  you  could  give 
me,  or  what  you  could  do  for  me  ;  but  I  was 
linking  what  should  be  the  use  if  I  was  to  take 
you  in  my  hatecuu, — in  my  boat. 

'O,  then  you  will  take  me,  sir!  O,  thank  you, 
sir,'  said  John,  eagerly,  '  Avhal  use,  did  you  say, 
sir  ?  O,  I  want  very  much  to  go  to  France,  to 
find  a  gentleman,  who  I  hope  will  be  a  friend  to 
my  poor  mother.' 

'  Your  moder,  did  you  say,  my  liltel  friend — 
if  you  want  to  go  to  France  to  do  good  to  your 
moder,  yoiu  must  be  de  honjils — de  good  son,  so 
you  shall  go  wid  me  in  my  bateau.'' 

'  O,  thank  you,  kind  Fi»3nchman,'  said  J»hn, 
taking  his  hand  and  shaking  it,  and  pressing  it 
to  his  bosom,  so  overjoyed  that  he  scarcely  knew 
what  he  did  or  what  he  said  ;  '  then  I  will  come 
to  the  harbor,  by  four  to-morrow,  and  you  will 
be  there  and  take  me,  I  shall  be  sure  to  find  you.' 

'  Oui,  yes,'  relumed  the  Frenchman ;  '  you 
may  come,  but  be  sure  you  do  not  be  too  late 
after — you  must  be  quite  positivement  a  liltel  be- 
fore four,  because  I  would  not  lose  de  marais, 
dat  is  to  say  de  what  you  call  de  tide,  for  de 
universe.'  So  saying,  he  walked  away  in  the 
direction  of  Dover  town,  leaving  John  to  piKsue 
his  way  home  to  the  hut  under  the  cliffs. 

By  this  lime  the  twilight  had  gradually  given 


PERSEVERANCE.  07 

way  to  the  coming  on  of  night ;  and  John  Bar- 
ton had  been  so  earnestly  engaged  in  talking 
and  arranging  his  plan  of  going  to  France,  that 
he  had  not  perceived  the  increasing  darkness. 
The  sea  that  lay  calmly  before  him,  and  the 
wide  heavens  that  were  above  him,  were  both 
so  exactly  the  same  deep  blue  color,  that  they 
seemed  to  touch  and  be  one  vast  space,  except- 
ing that  the  waters  beneath  now  and  then  broke 
into  little  white  sparkles  on  the  tops  of  the 
waves,  and  the  sky  over  his  head  was  bright 
with  many  stars.  The  cliffs  around,  with  their 
white  fronts  stretching  down  towards  the  beach, 
looked  cold  and  ghastly,  and  there  was  scarcely 
a  sound  to  be  heard  but  the  flapping  wings  of  a 
solitary  sea-gull,  and  the  distant  cry  of  the  sai- 
lors, keeping  time  to  their  pulling  altogether,  as 
they  hauled  in  their  cables. 

Little  John  could  not  help  stopping  for  a  mo- 
ment to  look  round  upon  a  scene,  which,  al- 
though seen  by  him  every  day,  yet  seemed  now 
to  look  particularly  beautiful,  and  at  the  same 
time  of  a  kind  of  awful  loveliness.  Now  that 
he  stood  quite  alone,  and  that  he  had  time  to 
think,  he  felt  that  he  had  just  done  a  very  bold 
thing  in  undertaking  to  make  so  long  a  voyage 
of  his  own  accord,  and  without  having  asked  the 
advice  of  any  one,  no  not  even  the  advice  of  his 
own  mother.  And  then  came  the  thought  of 
what  she  would  say  when  she  found  what  he 
7 


93  PERSEVERANCE. 

had  done.  '  1  know,'  thought  he,  '  I  am  doing 
right,  for  I  am  trying  to  do  good  to  my  mother, 
and  perhaps  if  I  were  to  have  asked  her  leave 
first,  she  would  have  been  afraid  to  let  such  a 
little  boy  as  I  am  go  alone,  and  with  strangers, 
too — but  then  no  one  would  hurt  such  a  little 
fellow  a-s  I  am  ;  and  then  she  would  think,  that 
I  should  never  be  able  to  travel  in  France,  be- 
cause I  have  no  money,  and  I  can't  speak  French, 
which  I  have  heard  everybody  speaks  in  France, 
even  the  little  boys  and  girls,  and  she  would  be 
afraid  1  should  have  no  bed,  and  be  obliged  to 
lie  in  the  fields,  and  then  she  would  perhaps  for- 
bid me  to  go,  which  I  should  be  very  sorry  for, 
because  I  should  not  like  to  disobey  her,  yet  all 
the  time  I  should  know  I  ought  to  go,  for  though 
there  will  be  a  great  many  difficulties,  yet  I  feel 
that  if  I  try  hard  and  do  my  best  to  get  through 
them  and  help  myself,  that  God  will  be  so  good 
and  kind  as  to  take  care  of  me.'  Little  John, 
as  he  thought  of  all  this,  looked  over  the  blue 
waters,  and  felt  the  tears  come  in  his  eyes,  and 
a  kind  of  swelling  sensation  come  over  his  breast, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  never  prayed 
so  earnestly  in  all  his  life,  though  he  could  not 
say  a  word.  Just  then  he  recollected  that  it 
must  be  very  late,  and  that  he  had  stayed  away 
from  home  so  long  that  his  mother  would  be  un- 
easy ;  so  he  ran  as  quickly  as  he  could  towards 
ihe   hut,  determining   that   he   had  better  not 


PERSEVERANCE.  99 

mention  his  intention  of  going  to  his  mother 
at  all. 

'  Why,  Johnny  dear,'  said  she,  as  he  bounced 
into  the  cottage  qu^ite  out  of  breath,  '  what  a 
long  time  you  have  been  away.  I  suppose 
neighbor  Haul  kept  you.' 

John  felt  inclined  to  say,  '  Yes,  mother,'  but 
he  knew  it  would  not  be  quite  the  truth,  so  he 
said,  '  I  staid  a  little  while  talking  with  Bill 
Haul,  mother,  and  I  stayed  the  rest  of  the  time 
on  the  beach,  but,  if  you  please,  mother,  I  would 
rather  you  wouldn't  ask  me  what  I  stayed 
there  for.' . 

'  Very  well,  dear,'  said  his  mother  ;  '  no 
harm,  I  dare  say.' 

'  No  indeed,  mother,'  answered  John  ;  and 
they  sat  down  to  their  supper  of  dried  fish, 
and  brown  bread. 

'  What  ails  you,  child  ?  a'n't  you  hungry  ?' 
said  his  mother,  observing  that  he  cut  off  his 
usual  portion  of  bread  and  fish,  but  that,  instead 
of  eating  it  at  once,  he  took  only  a  small  piece 
of  each,  and  put  -by  the  rest. 

'Thank'ee,  mother,  I  don't  Avish  the  whole  of 
it  to-night,'  said  John,  for  he  thought  that  he 
should  want  something  to  take  with  him  the 
next  morning,  and  he  did  not  like  to  deprive 
his  mother  of  any  more  than  he  could  help,  as 
she  could  so  ill  afford  to  spare  it.  And  then  he 
was  still  more  glad  that  he  had  not  told  his 
mother  of  his  intended  voyage,  for,  even  if  she 


IW  PEKSEVERANCE. 

had  allowed  him  to  go,  ehe  would  have  given 
him  everything  she  had  in  the  house,  and  left 
herself  entirely  without  food. 

When  the  time  came  for  going  to  bed,  and 
little  John  wished  his  mother  '  good  night,'  as 
she  placed  her  hand  as  usual  on  his  head,  and 
said,  '  God  bless  you,  my  comfort,'  he  again  felt 
the  swelling  emotion  at  his  breast,  and  was  very 
much  inclined  to  throw  himself  into  her  arms, 
and  tell  her  all  he  intended  to  do  for  her  ;  but 
he  checked  himself,  and  saying,  '  May  God  be 
a  friend  to  us,  mother,'  kissed  her  fervently  and 
tenderly,  and  ran  hasily  into  his  own  little  room, 
where  he  threw  himself  on  his  straw  mattrass, 
and  was  soon  sound  asleep. 

When  he  awoke,  he  was  alarmed  to  see  that 
it  was  already  daylight,  and  feared  that  the  sun 
must  be  risen.  He  jumped  up,  put  on  his  clothes 
as  quickly  as  he  could,  put  up  his  two  remain- 
ing checked  shirts  in  a  bundle  together,  with 
two  more  pair  of  grey  stockings,  and  tying  his 
best  handkerchief  (which  his  mother  had  given 
him  for  a  keepsake)  round  her. spinning-wheel, 
as  a  sort  of  farewell  remembrance,  for  he  could 
not  write,  he  left  the  cottage,  and  ran  as  fast  as 
he  could  along  the  sea-beach,  eating  part  of  the 
remainder  of  his  supper  as  he  went.  It  was  not 
until  he  had  reached  the  harbor,  that  he  found 
the  sun  was  already  up,  for  the  cliffs  hindered 
him  from  seeing  it  while  he  was  on  the  beach 
underneath  them  ;    he   was   afraid  it  was  very 


PERSEVERANCE.  101 

late,  and  asked  a  man,  who  was  standing  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  looking  at  a  crab  that  lay 
kicking  on  its  back  among  some  sea-weed,  what 
o'clock  it  was.  The  man  carelessly  answered, 
without  looking  up,  '  past  four.' 

'  O  dear,  I  shall  be  too  late ;  what  shall  I  do  ?' 
exclaimed  little  John.  '  Master,'  continued  he, 
turning  again  to  the  man,  who  was  now  scra- 
ping some  sand  with  his  foot  over  the  sprawling 
crab,  '  I  say,  Master,  have  you  seen  a  French- 
man about  here  this  morning  V 

The  man  stared  for  a  moment  full  in  John's 
face,  and  said,  '  Lord,  how  should  I  know  !' 
and  then  returned  again  to  his  stupid  amuse- 
ment. 

'  O  dear  me,  what  shall  I  do — but  I  had  bet- 
ter not  stay  here,'  thought  little  John  ;  '  I  must  do 
as  well  as  I  can,  and  try  to  find  him  out  for 
myself.'  He  went  towards  a  few  men  whom  he 
saw  at  a  short  distance,  who  seemed  to  be 
watching  some  fishing-boats  going  out.  As  he 
pushed  into  the  midst  of  them,  he  felt  himself 
touched  on  the  shoulder,  and,  on  looking  round, 
he  saw  his  friend  the  Frenchman. 

'  Ah,  my  littell  ami,  my  liltell  friend,'  said  he, 
'  you  are  very  good  time  here,  I  see.' 

'  O,  I  am  glad  I  have  found  you,  I  v/as  afraid 
5  should  be  too  late,  for  a  man  told  me  just 
now  that  it  was  past  four  o'clock.' 

'  No,  no  such  ting,'  said  the  Frenchman  ;  '  it 
is  half  an  hour  past  tree  only.' 


102  PERSEVEHANCE. 

*  O,  I  am  so  glad,'  replied  John,  '  for  then 
there  will  be  time  for  me  to  run  and  leave  a 
message  with  Bill  Haul  for  my  mother,  who,  1 
am  afraid,  will  be  frightened  when  she  finds  I 
have  gone  away.' 

The  Frenchman  agreed,  telling  him  to  mind 
and  be  back  in  time,  and  so  John  went  to  Bill 
Haul,  and  told  him  all  about  his  intended  jour- 
ney to  France,  begging  him  to  go  every  day  and 
see  his  mother,  and  be  kind  to  her  for  his  sake, 
while  he  was  away.  Bill  Haul  promised  all 
this,  for  he  loved  little  John  Barton  for  his  good- 
nature and  obliging  disposition  ;  and,  when 
John  returned  to  the  harbor,  he  felt  much  happi- 
er than  he  did  before,  now  that  he  knew  his 
mother  would  know  where  he  was,  and  that  she 
would  have  some  one  to  go  and  help  her  in  his  ab- 
sence. At  first,  John  Barton  was  very  happy 
on  board  the  Frenchman's  boat,  helping  him  and 
two  other  men,  who  were  aboard,  to  work  the 
vessel  ;  but,  when  he  had  been  there  about  an 
hour  and  a  half,  he  began  to  feel  very  sick  at 
the  stomach,  and  his  head  ached  so  much,  that 
he  had  a  great  mind  to  ask  Jaques  Bontemps 
(which  was  the  Frenchman's  name)  if  he  might 
go  into  the  cabin  for  a  little  while  ;  but,  as  he 
saw  that  he  and  the  men  were  busy,  he  thought 
he  would  manage  as  well  as  he  could  for  him- 
self ;  so,  seeing  a  large  boat-cloak  in  a  corner, 
he  threw  himself  upon  it,  and  had  not  lain  long 
there  before  he  felt  quite  recovered,  which,  per- 


tEliSEVERANCE.  10,3 

haps,  wouJd  not  have  been  the  case  if  he  had 
gone  below,  as  the  warm  air  of  a  confined  cabin 
is  more  likely  to  bring  on  sea-sickness  than  to 
relieve  it.  The  fresh  air  of  the  deck,  and  his 
being  constantly  at  work,  soon  made  him  quite 
well  ;  and  when  the  Frenchman  came  to  him  to 
see  if  he  wanted  any  breakfast,  he  found  that  he 
was  very  hungry.  He  produced  a  small  bit  of 
dried  fish  and  some  crust,  which  was  all  that 
was  left  of  his  provision,  and  began  to  eat  it, 

'  Ah,  my  poor  littell  ami  !  What,  is  dat  all 
you  have  for  your  dejeune — for  your  breakfast  ? 
Stop,  stop  !  Stay,  let  me  see  if  I  cannot  give  you 
something  better.' 

The  kind  Jaques  went  and  fetched  him  some 
boiled  eggs,  wine,  and  some  bread.  John  thank- 
ed him,  and  eat  it  very  heartily  ;  but  he  mixed 
some  water  with  the  wine.  Jaques  Bontemps, 
who  was  watching  him  said,  '  Ah,  ha  !  it  is  all 
ver  well  dat  you  put  de  water  to  de  wine  now, 
but  you  will  like  it  by  itself  when  you  have 
been  a  littel  time  in  France.  What  fpr  are  you 
going  to  France  V  continued  he,  '  and  for  how 
IcMg  time  ?' 

John  answered  that  he  did  not  know  how  long 
he  should  be  there,  but  he  Avas  going  to  try  and 
find  out  a  gentleman  who  lived  in  Paris. 

'  And  what  name  is  de  gentleman  ?  and  what 
street  in  Paris  does  he  live  ?'  asked  Jaques. 

But  when  little  John  told  him  he  knew  nei- 
ther, and  that  he  had  no  money,    nor   could  he 


104  PERSEVERANCE. 

speak  a  word  of  French,  the  goodnatured  French- 
man lifted  up  his  hands  and  eyes  in  astonish- 
ment :  '  My  poor  littel  friend,'  he  exclaimed, 
'  how  will  you  do  to  travel  all  dat  way  if  you 
have  no  got  money  ?  I  would  myself  go  wid 
you  and  show  you  de  way,  but  I  must  not  leave 
my  meteir — my  trade  ;  and  I  have  very  littel 
money  to  give  away,  but  what  I  can  give  I  will.' 
So  saying  the  good  man  took  out  a  half-franc 
piece*  and  fifteen  sous,!  and  gave  them  to  little 
John  Barton,  who  had  never  possessed  so  large 
a  sum  in  all  his  life. 

The  vessel  just  then  requiring  the  captain's 
attention,  he  left  the  little  boy,  bidding  him  rest 
himself,  as  he  would  have  a  long  way  to  walk 
soon.  So  John  threw  himself  again  upon  the 
boat-cloak,  where  he  slept  soundly  some  hours. 

He  was  awakened  by  a  loud  confused  noise, 
and,  starting  upon  his  feet,  he  found  that  the 
vessel  was  alongside  the  quay  in  the  port  of 
Boulogne,  where  a  great  number  of  people  were 
assembled  to  witness  the  arrival  of  a  steam- 
packet  from  London. 

All  these  people  seemed  to  be  talking  at  once, 
and  at  the  very  top  of  their  voices.  He  saw 
some  men  dressed  in  green  coats  adorned  with 
silver,  with  canes  in  their  hands,  who  seemed  to 
be  ordering  every  one  about,  and  now  and  then 
some  of  them  conducted  the  people  who  left  the 

*  Small  silvor  coin,  worth  about  ten  cents. 
f  A  80U3  is  worth  about  one  cent. 


PERSEVERANCE.  106 

packet-boat  to  a  small  house  at  a  little  distance, 
surrounded  with  white  pillars.  There  were 
also  some  strange-looking  women,  with  very 
short  dark  blue  woollen  petticoats  on,  curious 
little  figured  cotton  caps  on  their  heads,  very 
long  gold  ear-rings,  round  baskets  strapped  to 
their  backs,  and  heavy  wooden-soled  slippers  on, 
which  went  clicket-i-clack,  clicket-i-clack,  every 
time  thej'^  moved  a  sbep,  and  added  to  the  noise 
they  made  by  screaming  and  bawling  to  each 
other.  Then  he  noticed  a  number  of  young 
men  and  boys  who  held  little  cards  in  their 
hands,  which  they  seemed  to  be  endeavoring  to 
force  upon  every  one  who  landed,  talking,  like 
all  the  rest,  as  loud  as  they  possibly  could. 
Even  some  fishermen  and  sailors,  who  were  as- 
sisting Bontemps  to  moor  his  boat,  all  shouted 
in  the  same  high  tone  of  voice  as  every  one  else. 
John  Barton  could  not  help  remarking  how  dif- 
ferent they  were  to  the  English  sailors  at  Do- 
ver, who  seemed  to  do  double  the  work,  though 
they  spoke  not  a  word,  perhaps,  the  whole  time, 
much  less  made  such  a  bustle  and  hubbub  as 
these  strange  sailors  did.  What  made  all  this 
noise  seem  still  more  confusing  to  little  John 
was,  that  not  one  word  of  what  he  he  ird  around 
did  he  understand.  No  ;  nothing  was  spoken 
around  him  but  French  ;  —  he  was  now  in 
France  I  He  felt  still  more  helpless  and  deso- 
late when  he  had  taken  leave  of  his  kind  friend, 
Jaques    Bontemps,  and  was   wandering  along 


106  PERSEVERANCE. 

one  of  the  streets  of  Boulogne,  uncertain  which 
way  to  go  ;  however,  he  was  determined  to  keep 
up  his  spirits,  and  not  to  give  way  to  fear  and 
anxiety  till  there  should  be  real  occasion  for 
them.  He  now  began  to  feel  extremely  thirsty, 
and  therefore  looked  about  for  someplace  where 
he  might  get  a  draught  of  water  or  milk,  but  it 
was  in  vain  ;  there  was  not  a  single  shop  which 
seemed  at  all  likely  to  sell  anything  of  the  kind. 
At  last  he  determined  to  ask,  as  well  as  he 
could,  for  some  at  the  first  shop  he  should  come 
to  of  any  kind.  It  happened  to  be  a  baker's  ; 
he  went  in,  and  tried  hard  to  make  the  woman 
he  found  there  understand  what  he  wanted,  but 
in  vain. 

John,  disappointed,  left  the  shop,  fearing  he 
should  never  be  able  to  make  any  one  under- 
stand him  in  France  ;  he  walked  on,  and  at  the 
end  of  the  street  came  to  a  square  open  place 
that  looked  like  a  market.  To  his  great  joy  he 
saw  on  one  of  the  stalls  some  fine  ripe  cherries 
and  strawberries,  and  upon  producing  a  sous  the 
woman  placed  in  his  hand  a  large  cabbage-leaf 
full  of  fruit.  As  he  was  eating  it,  and  thinking 
how  much  better  his  bargain  was  here,  than  the 
little  paper  pottles  with,  perhaps,  half  a  dozen 
strawberries  in  them,  given  for  the  same  money 
in  England,  he  saw  standing  opposite  to  him,  at 
a  small  distance,  a,  little  beggar-girl,  whose  eyes 
were  fixed  longingly  on  the  juicy  fruit  he  held 
in  his  hand,  but  directly  she  perceived  he  noticed 


PERSEVERANCE.  107 

her,  she  hastily  withdrew  them.  Her  face  was 
extremely  pale  and  thin  ;  her  eyes,  though  of  a 
beautiful  dark  brown,  looked  hollow  and  sickly  ; 
her  clothes  hung  in  rags  about  her  ;  and  her 
little  tender  feet  were  bare  ;  John  Barton  went 
towards  her,  and  held  his  leaf  of  fruit  before 
her.  She  hesitated,  and  looked  up  in  his  face  ; 
he  took  her  hand,  which  was  hot  and  parched, 
and  placing  it  among  the  tempting  red  berries, 
he  said,  '  Do  eat,  little  dear  !' 

The  little  child,  again  fixing  her  large  dark 
eyes  on  his,  and  smiling,  took  some  of  the  straw- 
berries, and  began  to  eat  very  eagerly,  as  if  she 
were  extremely  hungry.  When  she  had  finish- 
ed all  the  fruit  that  remained  in  the  leaf,  John 
thought  she  still  seemed  to  be  hungry,  and  ask- 
ed her  if  she  would  not  like  some  more.  The 
child  shook  her  head,  and  smiled  again.  '  I 
cannot  make  her  understand  me,'  thought  he  ; 
'  but  I  will  buy  some  bread,  which  will  be  better 
for  her,  for  I  am  sure  she  looks  still  hungry.' 
He  was  accordingly  going  towards  a  shoo,  but 
as  soon  as  he  attempted  to  move,  the  little  girl 
shrieked  out  '  Restez  done,  restez  done  .''*  and 
caught  hold  of  his  jacket  lest  he  should  escape. 
He  took  hold  of  her  hand,  and,  pointing  to  the 
shop,  he  led  her  towards  it,  and  gave  her  a  little 
loaf,  which  she  eat  as  hungrily  as  she  had  be- 
fore done  the  fruit.  As  John  Barton  stood 
watching   his    young  acquaintance    enjoy    his 

'  O,  do  stay,  do  «Uy  !' 


lOS  PERSEVERANCE. 

present,  he  was  delighted  to  see  the  color  come 
into  her  cheeks,  and  he  felt  very  happy  to  think 
he  had  been  able  to  help  a  poor  little  creature 
who  was  still  more  helpless  than  himself.  He 
now  began  to  think  of  continuing  his  journey  ; 
shook  hands  with  the  little  girl,  and  kissed  her, 
and  then  made  her  understand  that  he  must  leave 
her.  This  however  he  was  not  allowed  to  do, 
for  she  placed  herself  before  him,  and,  putting 
her  arm  in  his,  led  him  on  a  little  way,  then 
stopped  and  pointed  quickly  from  him  to  herself 
two  or  three  times,  and  clapping  her  little  hands 
together,  and  looking  up  in  his  face,  she  nodded 
and  smiled,  as  if  she  had  arranged  that  they 
should  go  together.  John  Barton  could  not  help 
feeling  pleased  that  this  little  stranger  had  ta^ken 
such  a  fancy  to  him,  especially  as  he  thought 
he  should  not  be  likely  to  take  her  from  home, 
as,  from  her  wandering  about  the  streets  alone 
and  hungry,  he  did  not  think  it  probable  that 
she  lived  there  ;  he  found  also,  that  he  could 
make  this  little  creature  understand  his  mean- 
ing, better  than  any  one  else  he  had  spoken  to 
since  he  had  been  in  France.  Well,  they  were 
just  trotting  off  together,  when  suddenly  John 
recollected  that  he  did  not  know  which  way  he 
ought  to  turn  to  go  towards  Paris.  He  turned 
to  his  little  companic^n  and  said  '  Paris,  Paris,' 
two  or  three  times  ;  then  pointed  to4iimself,  and 
then  all  around.  The  child  only  shook  her 
head  and  smiled. 


PERSEVEItANCE.  109 

John  Barton  did  not  know  how  to  make  her 
comprehend  his  meaning,  when  jus't  at  that  mo- 
ment a  stage-coach  came  by,  and  stopped  just 
where  the  two  children  were  standing.  On  it 
were  some  words  in  French,  and  among  them 
was  one  which  John  made  out  to  be  Paris  ;  he 
pointed  to  it,  and  when  the  little  girl  saw  what 
he  meant  she  screamed  out  with  joy,  and  ex- 
claiming, '  A  Paris  !  a  Paris  !  O,  quel  bon- 
heur  !  notis  olloiis  a  Paris  /'*  she  skipped  a- 
bout  like  a  littte  mad  thing. 

John  thus  found  out  that  the  word  Paris  Avas 
written  the  same  way  in  France  as  in  England 
— but  that  the  French  people  sounded  it  difier- 
ently.  The  little  girl  now  took  his  hand,  and 
led  him  straight  up  the  hilly  street  they  were 
then  in,  and  when  they  came  to  the  top,  she 
turned  round  and  pointed  across  the  town.  John 
looked  round  and  saw  the  wide  sen,  over  which 
he  had  so  lately  passed,  dancing  and  sparkling 
in  the  sunbeams,  a.t  a  little  distance  off.  The 
day  was  so  clear,  that  he  could  distinctly  see  the 
cliffs  of  England  ;  and  as  he  looked  upon  them, 
he  thought  of  his  own  dear  mother,  and  praj^d 
that  he  might  soon  return  to  her  Avith  good 
news.  They  then  ente<-ed  a  gate  under  some 
huge  walls,  on  the  tops  of  Avhich  trees  were 
growing  ;  and  after  they  had  walked  through 
some  more  streets,  they  came  out  at  another 
gate  like  the  former,  and  they  found  themselves 

♦  '  To  Puriii,  to  Paris  !     O  what  happinciia  !    Let  us  go  to  Paris.' 


110  PERSEVERANCE. 

on  a  straight  road,  upon  whicii,  at  some  dtstance 
off',  John  again  saw  the  stage-coach  travelling 
slowly  along.  They  trudged  on,  keeping  it  in 
sight  for  some  time,  but  it  went  much  faster  than 
they  could  possibly  walk,  and  st)  it  was  not  long 
before  they  lost  it  altogether  ;  but  still  they  kept 
walking  on,  John  every  i>ow  and  then  looking 
at  his  little  companion,  to  see  if  she  seemed 
tired.  But,  on  the  contrary,  she  appeared  to  be 
gay  and  brisk,  and  as  if  she  had  been  weM  ac- 
customed to  walking  ;  she  now  and  then  ran 
to  the  side  of  the  road,  to  gather  the  weeds 
which  she  would  stick  into  John's  hat,  and  then 
smile  in  his  face,  as  if  trying  to  show  how  hap- 
py she  was.  Once  or  twice  she  endeavored  to 
get  his  bundle  from  him,  but,  when  he  found 
that  she  only  wanted  to  carry  it  for  him,  that 
she  might  save  him  the  trouble,  he  would  not  let 
her  have  it,  though  she  continually  put  her  hand 
on  it.  However,  when  she  found  nothing  could 
make  him  give  it  up,  she  ran  and  gathered  some 
very  large  dock-leaves  out  of  the  hedge,  and  held 
them  over  John's  and  her  own  head  to  keep  the 
heat  of  the  sun  off',  all  the  time  smiling  and 
playing  several  little  graceful  tricks,  as  if  she 
mocked  a  lady  with  her  parasol,  to  the  great  de- 
light of  our  friend  John,  who,  as  he  watched 
her  sweet  cheerful  countenance  and  winning  ac- 
tions, thought  he  had  never  beheld  such  a  pret- 
ty creature  in  all  his  Kfe.  Suddenly  she  stop- 
ped, and  pointing  to   herself,  she   said,   '  Julie, 


PERSEVERANCE.  Ill 

JUiie  :'  then  pointing  to  him,  she  looked  up  in 
his  face  wifli  an  askirvg  look,  to  which  he  repli- 
ed, '  John,*  for  he  could  xwt  but  directly  under- 
siaivl  that  she  meant  to  tell  him  her  name  and 
inquire  his. 

'  Tchon  !  Tchon  !  Ah,  que  c'est  drole  .''* 
exclaimed  the  child,  laughing,  and  again  she 
frisked  about  ;  then  she  came  back  to  him,  and 
stroking  hrs  face,  said,  in  a  half-laughing,  half- 
soothing  tone,  '  Ah,  vton  pauvre   Tchon  !  't 

Little  John  could  not  help  laughing  too,  so  he 
patted  her  on  the  chee-k,  saying,  '  O,  you  dear 
little  Julie  !'  which  made  her  laugh  and  skip 
about  ten  times  more  ;  so  these  two  merry  little 
travellers  went  on  and  on,  for  ma-ny  a  long 
mile,  without  feeling  tired,  so  happy  they  were 
with  each  other. 

It  was  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
when  they  began  to  feel  both  hungry  and  tired, 
so  John  began  to  look  about  for  some  house 
where  they  might  rest  and  get  something  to  eat ; 
and  as  he  spied  a  cottage  at  a  little  distance,  he 
went  towards  it,  and,  upon  looking  in,  he  saw  a 
woman  standing  at  a  table,  cutting  some  slices 
off  an  immensely  large  brown  loaf,  and  giving 
a  piece  to  earch  of  her  children,  six  of  whom 
were  sitting  rouinl  the  table,  with  a  large  howl 
of  milk  before  them.  Julie,  who  had  likewise 
peeped  in,  went   towards  the   woman,  and  said 

•  •  TiJhon  '  Tchon  !    O,  how  droll  !' 
*•  *  All,  my  poor  John  !' 


11^ 


PERSEVERANCE. 


sometning  to  hei,  when  immediately  the  good 
woman  came  to  where  John  was  standing-,  and 
led  h»im  to  the  table,  where  she  made  him  sit 
down,  at>l  placed  a  bowl  of  milk  and  two  large 
slices  of  bread  before  him  and  Julie,  all  the  time 
encouraging  them  to  eat  by  her  kind  looks  and 
tone  of  voice.  They  were  soon  quite  at  home 
with  this  good  family,  for  though  they  could  not 
make  out  a  single  word  that  John  said,  yet  his 
good-natured  face,  and,  to  them,  curious  lan- 
guage, soon  won  the  children  to  take  a  fancy  to 
him  ;  and  as  for  Julie,  no  one  could  look  at  her 
beautiful  face  and  winning  manners,  without 
loving  her  directly.  When  they  had  finished 
their  pleasant  meal,  John  took  out  t^vo  of  his 
sous,  and  offered  them  timidly  to  the  woman, 
who  p-at  back  his  hand,  with  some  r,pmarks, 
which  John  could  not  understand,  but  he  saw  by 
her  action  tliat  she  refused  his  money  ;•  he  than- 
ked her  very  heartily  several  times,  hoping,  by 
the  tone  of  h4s  voice,  to  make  himself  under- 
stood ;  and  he  took  hold  of  her  hand,  and  drew 
her  face  towards  him,  and  kissed  her  very  affec- 
tionately. The  woman  returned  his  caresses 
with  a  very  gen^.le  manner,  and  then  went  to- 
wards a  door  at  the  other  end  of  the  apartment. 
She  opened  it,  and,  pointing  to  asmallbea  which 
stood  in  the  next  room,  looked  at  him,  and  then 
spoke  some  words  to  Julie.  John  shook  his 
head,  in  token  that  they  had  no  place  to  sleep 
in,  and  the  good  woman   seemed   to    settle    that 


PERSEVERANCE.  113 

they  should  remain  with  her  that  night.  Our 
two  little  travellers,  after  a  good  game  of  romps 
with  the  children  of  the  cottage,  on  some  hay 
which  was  lying  in  a  field  behind  the  house, 
went  to  bed  and  slept  soundly  till  six  o'clock  on 
the  following  morning.  The  good  woman  hav- 
ing given  them  son>e  bread  and  milk  for  break- 
fast, our  two  little  travellers  took  an  afTectionate 
leave  of  her  and  proceeded  on  their  journey. 
We  will  not  follow  them,  day  by  day,  in  all  their 
adventures  :  it  will  be  sufficient  to  say,  that 
what  with  John's  goodnatured  face,  and  frank- 
active  manners,  together  with  Julie's  pretty 
voice,  and  sweet  engaging  looks  when  she  spoke 
to  strangers,  our  two  little  wanderers  were  nev- 
er in  want  of  a  supper  or  a  bed.  Once  indeed 
they  met  with  a  very  cross  man,  who  would 
have  nothing  to  say  to  them  ;  so  that  they  were 
forced  to  endure  the  pains  of  hunger,  and  lie  all 
night  in  the  open  air  ;  but  even  then  they  were 
not  down-hearted,  for  John  luckily  found  some 
wild  strawberries,  which  he  gathered  for  Julie  ; 
and  when  night  came,  he  made  up  a  nice  bed  for 
her  on  some  hay,  which  he  piled  up  in  the  cor- 
ner of  a  field,  under  a  thick  hedge,  and  covered 
her  up  with  his  coarse,  but  warm,  blue  sra- 
jacket.  It  was,  fortunately,  a  fine  warm  nighl 
in  July,  so  that,  instead  of  feeling  sorry  they 
had  no  bed,  John  could  not  heip  being  very 
grateful  and  happy,  as  he  looked  up  at  the  deep 
8 


•114  PERSEVERANCE. 

blue  sky  over  his  head,  which  was  sparkling 
with  thousands  of  bright  stars.  As  he  was  si- 
lently thanking  God  for  his  protection  and  for 
being  able  to  help  himself,  he  suddenly  heard 
voices  on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge.  He  lis- 
tened, but  could  not  make  out  a  word,  as  the 
voices  talked  in  French.  He  rose  softly  from 
his  bed  of  hay,  and  crept  to  that  of  Julie,  who 
was  at  a  little  distance.  He  awakened  her  very 
gently, and  placed  his  fingers  on  his  lips  in  token 
that  she  should  listen  in  silence.  Julie,  who 
saw  his  signs  by  the  star-light,  after  having 
hearkened  to  the  voices  with  great  attention,  sud- 
denly started  up,  and  drew  John  quietly,  but 
quickly  from  the  spot.  He  saw  that  her  face 
was  much  agitated,  and  she  looked  pale  and 
frightened.  He  had  distinguished  in  the  midst 
of  the  conversation  he  had  just  overheard,  the 
name  of  the  cross  man,  who  had  refused  them  a 
supper  and  bed  that  evening.  He  particularly 
recollected  it,  because  it  was  written  over  the 
man's  door,  '  Lion  ;'  and  Julie  had  laughed 
when  she  read  it,  as  if  she  had  meant  to  say 
that  it  was  a  good  name  for  such  a  cross  per.son. 
Well,  he  now  noticed  that  Julie  was  leading 
him  back  to  the  village  where  Mr.  Lion  lived, 
and  that  she  at  last  stopped  at  his  door.  She 
knocked  loudly,  and  at  last  the  man  came  to  the 
window,  and  asked,  in  a  gruff  tone,  what  they 
wanted.  Julie  only  spoke  a  few  words  in  a  loud 
whisper,  when  he  hastened  down  stairs,  mutter- 


PERSEVERANCE.  115 

ing  all  the  way,  and  opened  the  door  for  them. 
After  bringing  the  children  in,  he  immediately 
called  up  some  workmen  who^slept  in  the  house, 
and  placing  them  at  the  doors  and  windows, 
with  sticks  in  their  hands,  he  gave  them  some 
directions  in  a  frightened  tone  of  voice,  and 
seemed  to  be  expecting  something  in  great  a- 
larm.  They  did  not  wait  long  before  they  heard 
a  voice  at  one  of  the  window  shutters.  All  the 
workmen  immediately  sallied  out,  and,  after  a 
short  scuffle,  they  came  in  again,  bringing  with 
them  two  men,  bound  hand  and  foot,  who  no 
sooner  uttered  a  word,  than  John  discovered 
them  to  be  the  same  men  whose  voices  he  had 
heard  in  the  hayfield.  He  now  found  that  Julie 
had  overheard  them  plotting  an  attack  on  Mr. 
Lion's  house  ;  and  had,  in  fact,  returned  good 
for  evil,  by  coming  and  warning  him  of  his  dan- 
ger, although  he  had  been  so  unkind  as  to  refuse 
them  a  little  food  and  a  night's  lodging.  The 
man  himself  seemed  now  to  be  ashamed  of  his 
behaviour,  for  he  pulled  out  a  golden  coin,  and 
offered  it  to  Julie,  but  she  shook  her  head,  and 
John  stepped  forward  and  put  back  his  hand, 
for  he  would  not  be  paid  for  doing  a  good  ac- 
tion, especially  by  a  man  whom  he  did  not  res- 
pect, even  though  he  felt  that  that  piece  of  mo- 
ney would  be  of  very  great  use  to  him  and  Julie 
on  their  journey  :  so  he  took  her  hand,  and, 
without  wishing  him  good-bye,  they  both  left  the 
house,  and  went  to  their   pleasant   beds    in  the 


116  PERSEVERANCE. 

hayfield,  where  they  both  slept  soundly  till  morti- 
ing,  when  they  jumped  up  betimes,  and  contin- 
ued their  journey  as  merrily  and  happily  as 
usual. 

Often  and  often  did  John  Barton  thank  God 
for  having  brought  him  and  his  dear  little  friend 
Julie  together.  Had  he  unkindly  eaten  all  his 
fruit,  instead  of  sharing  it  with  the  poor  little 
stranger,  he  never  could  have  managed  his 
journey  half  so  well,  so  that  he  felt  how  true  the 
proverb  was  that  he  had  heard  his  mother  re- 
peat— '  a  good  deed  always  meets  its  reward.' 

By  being  constantly  together,  and  helping  and 
loving  each  other,  John  and  Julie  at  last  came 
to  understand  each  other's  signs  almost  as  well 
as  by  talking  ;  and,  by  degrees,  John  learnt  to 
understand  a  few  words  of  French,  and  Julie 
of  English. 

At  length,  after  about  fifteen  days'  travelling, 
by  the  help  of  Julie's  inquiring  the  way  in  all 
the  towns  they  passed  through,  and  by  noticing 
all  the  stage  coaches  that  passed  them  on  the 
road,  the  two  little  wanderers  entered  the  city 
of  Paris. 

Here  then,  at  last,  was  our  hero  in  Paris  ;  at 
which  place  he  had,  for  the  last  fortnight,  been 
so  anxious  to  arrive.  But  how  was  he  to  pro- 
ceed in  order  to  find  out  the  French  gentleman, 
who,  he  hoped,  would  be  a  friend  to  his  moth- 
er ?  He  did  not  even  know  his  name,  and  as 
ho  looked  at  the  rows  and  rows  of  houses  thai 


PERSEVERANCE.  117 

surrounded  him  on  all  sides  of  this  immense 
town,  his  heart  almost  failed  him,  when  he 
recollected  that  he  did  not  even  know  the  name 
of  the  street  in  which  the  gentleman  lived. 

However,  he  tried  to  kee-p  up  his  spirits,  for 
he  recollected  that  he  had  never  found  grieving 
or  crying  do  him  any  good,  or  help  him  forward 
in  anything  ;  so  he  began  to  think  what  he  had 
better  first  do,  in  order  to  set  about  looking  for 
the  French  gentleman. 

At  this  moment,  a  rude  boy,  passing  quickly 
and  unconcernedly,  happened  to  knock  down  a 
basket  of  fine  peaches  belonging  to  a  fruit-wo- 
man, whose  stall  was  just  opposite  to  the  spot 
where  our  two  little  friends  were  standing. 

John  immediately,  with  his  usual  active  good- 
nature, ran  to  assist  the  woman  in  picking  up 
her  fruit,  and  replacing  it  in  the  basket  ;  and 
she,  after  having  bestowed  a  few  hard  words  on 
the  awkward  boy,  turned  and  thanked  our  hero, 
and  then  gave  him  a  fir.?  peach  for  his  pains. 
John,  although  he  felt  rather  hungry,  yet  (as 
he  always  did,  when  anything  nice  was  given  to 
him)  instantly  gave  it  to  Julie,  because  he 
thought  that  she,  being  a  little  girl,  and  weaker 
than  himself,  must  want  it  still  more  than  he. 

The  fruit-nvoman,  who  observed  tliis  action 
of  his,  was  very  much  pleased,  and  immediately 
placed  another  peach  in  his  hand  for  himself. 

While  the  children  were  eating  tbeir  peach- 
es, and  still  standing  by  the  stall,  a  lady  bought 


118  PERSEVERANCE. 

some  fruit  of  the  woman,  and  then  wished  to 
have  it  sent  home  to  her  house.* 

The  fruit-woman,  who  liked  John's  honest 
face,  and  his  kindness  to  the  little  girl,  desired 
him  to  carry  it  to  the  lady's  house  :  and  when 
Julie  had  made  him  understand  what  he  was  to 
do,  he  took  the  basket,  and,  accompanied  by  his 
little  friend  (who  would  never  leave  him  for  an 
instant),  he  followed  the  lady  home.  Upon  his 
arrival  there,  he  delivered  the  basket  of  fruit  to 
a  servant,  and  the  lady,  who  was  pleased  with 
the  two  children,  gave  them  each  a  cinque-sous 
piece  (about  six  cents.) 

John,  thinking  this  to  be  the  price  of  the 
fruit,  immediately  returned  with  it  to  the  fruit- 
woman,  who  was  still  more  pleased  with  him, 
from  this  fresh  proof  of  his  honesty  and  good- 
ness. He  now  made  his  usual  signs  to  Julie 
that  she  should  inquire  about  a  sleeping  place. 
He  soon  saw  by  the  smiling  looks  of  the  good 
woman,  that  their  petition  for  a  night's  lodging 
was  granted,  and  he  felt  very  grateful  that  they 
had  so  soon  found  a  home  in  that  great  busy 
city,  where  every  one  seemed  to  be  so  much  oc- 
cupied with  their  own  thoughts  and  business, 
that  John  had  felt  much  more  solitary  and  neg- 
lected since  he  had  come  amongst  them,  than 
he  had  ever  felt  whilst  he  was  travelling  along 
through  country  roads  and  meadows,  and  had 
only  come  now  and  then  to  a  cottage,  where  the 
people  seemed  to  have  more   leisure  and   incli- 


PERSEVERANXE. 


page  1 1 ;». 


PERSEVERANCE.  119 

nation  to  attend  to  him.  In  fact,  the  good  fruit- 
woraan  had  quite  taken  a  fancy  to  the  two 
strange  children,  from  their  honesty,  good  beha- 
vior, and  fondness  for  each  other,  and  she  felt 
scarcely  less  pleased  than  they  did,  when  they 
were  happily  settled  in  her  nice  little  lodgings. 

In  return  for  all  the  kindness  to  them,  John 
endeavored  to  make  himself  as  useful  as  possi- 
ble to  her  ;  and  he  really  was  a  great  assistance 
to  his  kind  friend,  by  carrying  the  baskets  of 
fruit  to  the  houses  of  the  people  who  purchased 
them  at  the  stall,  and  by  going  all  kinds  of  er- 
rands for  her,  when  out  of  doors,  and  when  at 
home,  by  rubbing  the  fruit,  arranging  it  in  the 
baskets  for  the  next  day's  sale,  picking  out  the 
best  leaves  and  placing  them  among  the  fruit  so 
as  to  make  it  look  more  tempting,  besides  vari- 
ous other  little  jobs  in  the  household,  which 
made  him  quite  a  valuable  helpmate. 

As  for  little  Julie,  she  was  not  able  to  do 
much  to  assist,  but  her  sweet  merry  face,  happy 
voice,  and  playful  gaiety,  made  her  a  most  char- 
ming companion  to  their  kind  friend  ;  and  as 
for  her  young  protector,  John,  he  doted  upon 
her  more  and  more  every  day,  while  she,  on  her 
part,  was  so  fondly  attached  to  him  that  she 
would  never  upon  any  account  be  prevailed  upon 
to  quit  him.  In  all  his  walks  she  accompanied 
him  ;  during  his  work  she  would  constantly  sit 
by  him  ;  and  either  sing  him  some  songs,  of 
which  she  seemed  to  know  an  immense  number, 


120  PKI{Si:VEIiANCK. 

or  merely  smile,  pat  his  face,  chatter  French  to 
him,  dance  about,  and,  in  short,  use  every  mean? 
in  her  power  to  amuse  and  please  ;  or  if  he 
were  sent  on  any  message,  she  was  sure  to  be 
trotting  beside  him,  helping  him  to  carry  the 
basket  or  parcel, and  trying,  by  all  kinds  of  little 
winning  ways,  to  make  the  way  seem  short  and 
pleasant. 

In  the  meantime,  John  Barton  never  for  a 
moment  lost  sight  of  the  main  object  which  had 
induced  him  to  come  to  Paris,  so  far  from  his 
own  dear  mother,  and  his  own  home  in  the  little 
cottage  under  the  cliffs.  Whenever  he  was  out, 
in  all  his  long  ramblings  through  the  large  city, 
he  never  failed  to  look  at  all  the  faces  he  met,  in 
the  hope  of  seeing  one  like  that  which  he  had 
often  heard  his  mother  describe  as  belonging  to 
the  French  gentleman,  who  had  been  so  much 
benefitted  by  his  father.  Every  name  that  he 
saw  written  up,  he  took  pains  to  spell  out  as 
well  as  he  could,  for  he  thought  he  had  heard 
his  mother  mention  it,  though  he  could  not  recol- 
lect the  exact  sound,  and  he  thought  that,  if  he 
were  to  see  it,  it  might  be  recalled  to  his  mind  ; 
these  were  very  slender  chances,  and  the  poor 
little  boy  began  at  last  to  despair  of  ever  suc- 
ceeding, when  an  event  occurred  which  proved 
that  God  never  deserts  those  that  are  really  per- 
severing, cheerful,  and  hearty  in  their  efforts  to 
help  themselves. 

One  fine  morning  John  was  sent  with  a  mes- 


PERSEVERANCE.  121 

sage  from  the  fruit-woman  to  one  of  her  custom- 
ers who  lived  in  a  distant  part  of  the  city,  and, 
as  he  was  returning,  he  stopped  for  an  instant 
to  look  at  a  handsome  cabriolet  which  stood  op- 
posite the  door  of  a  fine  large  house.  Just  at 
that  moment  a  piercing  scream  from  Julie  made 
him  turn  his  head  abruptly  round,  and,  to  his 
horror,  he  beheld  her  stretched  upon  the  pave- 
ment apparently  dead  !  whilst  a  gentleman  was 
leaning  over  her,  and  raising  her  from  the  ground. 

John  ran  towards  his  darling  little  friend,  and 
lifting  her  gently  in  his  arms,  beheld  her  face 
perfectly  pale  and  motionless.  He  burst  into 
tears  at  this  dreadful  sight,  and  broke  forth  into 
reproaches  against  the  gentleman  (who,  in  pass- 
ing quick  to  his  cabriolet,  appeared  to  have 
knocked  the  little  girl  down),  forgetting  that  he 
was  speaking  English,  and  would  therefore  most 
probably  be  misunderstood. 

However,  the  gentleman  mildly  replied  in  the 
same  language,  though  with  a  foreign  accent, 
'  My  little  friend,  I  am  exceedingly  sorry  to  have 
hurt  your  sister  ;  but  I  cannot  imagine  how  it 
was  she  fell,  for  I  scarcely  seemed  to  touch  her. 
I  think  it  must  have  been  something  else  which 
frightened  her,  for  the  poor  little  thing  is  in  a 
swoon.  Baptiste,'  added  he,  calling  to  a  servant 
who  stood  by,    '  lift   this  little   one  carefully  in 

Jrour  arms,  and  lay  her  on  the  sofa  in  the  par- 
or.' 
The  servant  obeyed  :    and  John,  seeing  they 


432  PERSEVERANCE. 

were  carrying  away  his  dear  little  Julie,  loudly 
protested  against  it. 

'  My  dear  little  friend,'  said  the  gentleman, 
leading  John  into  the  house,  '  be  patient  ;  we 
are  only  going  to  try  to  recover  your  sister  from 
her  fainting  fit.' 

John  followed  the  gentleman  into  a  superbly 
furnished  apartment,  where  he  saw  his  beloved 
little  friend  placed  carefully  on  a  soft  sofa,  where 
she  continued  to  lie  for  some  time,  perfectly 
still  and  pale.  As  John  hung  over  her,  sobbing, 
and  endeavoring  as  well  as  he  could  to  assist  in 
the  efforts  made  by  the  gentleman  and  his  ser- 
vants to  restore  her,  he  at  last  beheld  her  color 
come  a  little  into  her  cheeks,  and  he  had  the 
pleasure  of  feeling  her  breath  come  upon  his 
face  as  she  sighed  and  turned  a  little  round. 

'  Ou  est  mon  cher  papa  ?  Jdi  cru  V  avoir 
vu.  Est  ce  un  songe  ?*  said  she,  in  a  faint 
voice. 

'  Great  God  !  it  is  my  child  !  it  is  my  little 
Julie  !  it  is  my  dear  daughter  !'  exclaimed  the 
gentleman,  and  rushing  to  the  sofa,  he  caught 
the  little  girl  in  his  arms  and  covered  her  with 
kisses,  while  she,  in  her  turn,  flung  her  arms 
round  his  neck  and  stifled  him  with  weeping 
and  joyful  caresses. 

John  in  astonishment  beheld  this  scene,  nnd 
wondered  what  could  be  its  meaning,  when    -h? 

•  '  Wliere  is  my  dear  papa  .'      I  thought  f  had    seen   hiin.     I«  il  a 
dream  ." 


PERSEVERANCE.  123 

p-entloman,  after  indulg-ing  in  a  long  embrace  of 
his  dear  little  girl,  at  last  turned  to  where  he 
was  standing,  and  said  : — '  And  how  came  you, 
my  little  Englishman,  to  be  with  my  dear 
child  V  '  Is  Julie  your  daughter,  sir  ?'  asked 
John,  in  amazement. 

'  Yes,  my  long-lost  child,  for  whom  I  have 
grieved  these  last  two  years  ;  and  who  I  feared 
I  should  never  see  again  ;  but  come,  tell  me 
how  you  came  to  be  with  her  ;  come  tell  me  the 
whole  story.' 

John  recollected,  at  this  moment,  that  his  kind 
friend  the  fruit-woman  would  be  uneasy  at  his 
long  stay,  so  he  told  the  gentleman  that  he  be- 
lieved he  ought  to  return  to  her  to  relieve  her 
anxiety  ;  but  the  gentleman  would  not  hear  of 
his  leaving  him,  and  despatched  a  footman  to 
bid  the  fruit-woman  not  to  feel  anxious  for  the 
two  children,  as  they  were  perfectly  safe. 

By  this  time  the  poor  little  Julie  had  quite 
recovered  from  the  effects  of  her  swoon  (which 
was  only  occasioned  by  the  sudden  shock  of 
surprise  and  joy  in  seeing  her  dear  father  after 
so  long  a  separation),  and  she  could  now  sit  up 
on  the  sofa,  and  talk  with  her  usual  sprightli- 
ness.  With  her  eyes  and  lips  glistening  with 
mingled  new-fallen  tears  and  beaming  smiles, 
and  her  cheek  resting  on  her  kind  father's  bos- 
om, she  chatted  away  to  him  with  such  a  happy 
tone  of  voice,  as  made  her  father  stop  every  now 
und  then  to  kiss  her  for  joy,  and  gave  John  a 


134  PERSEVERANCE. 

sensation  of  such  proud  gladness  as  he  had  nev- 
er ia  his  life  felt  before.  '  And  now,  my  brave 
little  fellow,'  said  the  gentleman,  turning  to 
John  after  his  daughter  had  stopped  speaking, 
'  it  is  but  fair,  you,  who  have  been  so  kind  a 
protector  to  my  poor  little  wandering  child, 
should  be  told  who  she  is,  and  indeed  her  whole 
story,  which  she  has  been  relating  to  me  ;  I  see 
you  did  not  understand  her,  but  you  may  be 
sure  that,  in  the  course  of  her  tale,  she  did  not 
forget  to  mention  your  kindness  to  her,  my 
little  friend  ;  at  any  rate,  her  father  will  never 
forget  it.' 

So  saying,  the  gentleman  shook  John  Barton 
very  heartily  by  the  hand,  and,  after  doing  so 
two  or  three  times,  he  continued  :  '  Having, 
lost  my  dear  wife  when  my  little  Julie  was  very 
young,  I  was  compelled  to  trust  the  child  very 
much  to  the  care  of  servants  ;  and  one  afternoon, 
when  she  was  about  five  years  old,  the  maid  who 
had  the  charge  of  her  returned  home  with  the 
dreadful  news,  that,  in  the  course  of  their  walk, 
she  had  suddenly  missed  mademoiselle  Julie, 
and  that  she  had  searched  everywhere  in  Paris 
for  her,  but  in  vain.  The  agony  I  then  suffer- 
ed,' said  the  gentleman,  looking  affectionately 
at  his  little  girl,  '  can  only  be  equalled  by  the 
delight  I  now  feel  in  again  beholding  my  child, 
whom  I  have  so  long  mourned  as  lost  to  me  for 
ever.  Her  loss  was  so  sudden  and  strange,  as 
to  seem  almost  like  a  dream  ;    no  trace  whatev- 


PERSEVERANCE.  125 

er  eon  Id  be  discovered  of  the  cause  of  her  re- 
moval, and,  after  the  strictest  inquiry  and  search 
were  made  throughout  Paris,  I  was  compelled 
to  give  up  my  efforts  for  her  recovery  as  per- 
fectly hopeless.  The  cause  of  her  extraordinary 
disappearance  is  explained  by  the  account  Julie 
has  just  given  me.  She  says,  '  That  while  she 
was  walking  with  the  servant  in  the  gardens  of 
the  Tuilleries,  she  saw  a  very  beautiful  butter- 
fly, which  she  begged  the  maid  to  try  and  cat^ch 
for  her,  but,  as  this  latter  was  busily  engaged  in 
talking  with  some  acquaintance,  and  did  not  at- 
tend to  her  request,  she  tried  to  run  after  it 
herself,  and  as  she  was  pursuing  it  behind  one 
of  the  many  statues  which  adorn  the  gardens,  a 
tall  woman  with  glaring  black  eyes  started  out, 
caught  her  up  in  her  arms,  and  ran  off  with  her 
as  quickly  as  possible  ;  at  the  same  time  cover- 
ing her  month  with  her  dirty  brown  hand  so 
tightly  as  almost  to  stifle  her,  in  order  that  she 
might  not  cry  out  for  help.  My  poor  little  girl 
tells  me,  that  from  that  day  she  went  through 
the  most  shocking  hardships  ;  that  the  horrid 
gipsey  used  to  beat  her  dreadfully,  if  she  did  not 
perform  tasks  which  were  much  too  hard  for  her 
possibly  to  accomplish  ;  that  she  stripped  all  her 
nice  clothes  off,  and  dressed  her  in  filthy  rairs  ; 
that  she  used  to  make  her  walk  miles  and  miles 
with  her  about  the  country,  till  her  feet  used  to 
bleed,  and  till  she  was  obliged  to  drop  down  by 
the  road-side  and  cry  for  verv  weariness  ;    and 


126  PERSEVERANCE. 

that  she  never  gave  her  sufRcierit  food  to  eat. 
This  cruel  usage  was  because  my  child  would 
never  obey  her  in  two  things — no  threats,  no 
entreaties,  could  prevail  upon  her  either  to  beg 
or  steal  ;  both  of  which  this  wicked  wretch 
wanted  her  to  do,  and  had  stolen  her  for  the 
purpose.  At  last  my  poor  little  Julie  found  an 
opportunity  of  escaping  from  the  power  of  this 
horrid  fiend  :  she  ran  away  ;  and  had  not  wan- 
dered far,  when  she  met  with  you,  my  kind, 
good  little  boy,  to  whom  she  is  indebted  for  sup- 
porting her  in  her  misery,  and,  at  last,  for  con- 
ducting her  to  the  arms  of  her  sorrowing  father. 
May  God  Almighty  bless  and  reward  you  for  it, 
and  render  your  parents  as  happy  as  the  posses- 
sion of  so  good  a  son  ought  already  to  make 
them,  and  as  he  deserves  they  should  be.  But 
I  have  forgotten  all  this  time  to  ask  your  name, 
my  brave  boy  ;  twice  in  her  life  have  I  nearly 
lost  my  darling.  Her  first  preserver  I  entirely 
lost  sight  of  ;  but  you,  her  second  deliverer,  must 
receive  the  reward  due  to  one  who  has  rendered 
so  important  a  service  to  the  now  happy  Beliard.' 

'  Beliard  !  5eliard  !  that's  it !'  exclaimed  John, 
regardless  of  the  gentleman's  question  ,  I  knew 
I  should  remember  it  if  I  once  heard  it.  And 
is  Beliard  redlly  your  name,  sir  ?'  added  he, 
eagerly. 

'  Certainly,  my  little  friend,'  answered  the 
gentleman  astonished  ;  '  and  what  then  V 

'  And  you  say  you  nearly  lost  your  little  Julie 


PEKSEVERA>'CE,  127 

twice  in  her  life  ? — O,  it  must  be,  it  must  be  ! 
O,  my  dear,  dear  mother  !  my  dear  mother  I' 
exclaimed  John,  nearly  crying  with  joy,  as  he 
started  from  his  chair,  and  ran  to  the  window, 
just  as  if  he  could  have  really  looked  out  to- 
wards his  own  house  and  his  dear  mother. 

The  gentleman,  amazed  at  this  strange  beha- 
vior of  the  little  boy,  asked  him  what  he  meant 
by  his  exclamations,  and  also  reminded  him  that 
he  had  not  yet  told  him.  his  name. 

'  O,  sir,  I  am  almost  sure  you  will  remember 
it,  for  it  was  my  poor  father's  as  well  as  mine — 
John  Barton.' 

'  Good  heavens  !  and  are  you  the  son  of  the 
brave  seaman  Avho  rescued  my  dear  infant  from 
the  waves  ?  Twice  has  my  darling  Julie  been 
saved   from  perishing  by  the  generous  Bartons.' 

You  may  easily  imagine,  that  Monsieur  Beil- 
ard,  upon  discovering  that  the  wife  and  mother 
of  the  two  preservers  of  his  child  was  living  in 
want  and  misery,  hastened  to  relieve  her.  On 
the  very  day  following,  he  set  off  for  England, 
accompanied  by  John  and  Julie  (whom  he 
would  not  trust  from  his  sight  for  an  inst-ant), 
but  not  till  he  had  first  called  upon  the  good 
fruit-woman  and  handsomely  rewarded  her  for 
her  kindness  to  the  poor  childpen.  He  also 
stopped  a  day  or  two  at  Boulogne,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  recompensing  the  good  Jaques  Bon  temps. 

At  last  the  impatient  John  had  the  happiness 
of  embracing  his  dear  mother,  for  whom  he  had 


12S 


PERSEVKRANCE. 


done  so  much,  and  of  seeing  her  provided  for 
comfortably  during  the  remainder  of  her  life,  by 
the  generosity  of  Monsieur  Beliard,  and  all 
this  he  could  not  help  feeling  was  owing  to  his 
exertions,  his  humanity,  and  his  reliance  upon 
the  goodness  of  God. 


THE  SAVOYARD  BOY 

AND  HIS  SISTER. 

ADAPTED  FROM  THE  GERMAN  OP  H.  KLETKi^ 


B7  JAMSS  C  HA.A.S, 


0,  then,  that  is  Paris  ! '  ex- 
claimed Seppi,  in  astonish- 
ment. 

'  Yes,  that  must  be  indeed 
Paris,'  said  his  companion 
Marie, '  it  looks  so  very  large. 
'Would  we  were  but  once 
there,  Seppi,  for  I  am  so 
very  hungry,  and  we  have  not  a  morsel  more 
bread  left  in  the  wallet.' 

'  Why,  yes,  Marie,  our  bread  is  indeed  all 
gone  ;  but  only  think  of  the  pretty  marmot  and 
the  hurdy-gurdy,  by  which  God  will  help  us  on 
still  further.  Come,  come  ;  let  us  be  merry  and 
cheerful.  Kind-hearted  people  will  surely  not 
deny  us  a  bit  of  bread,  and  a  little  nook  where 
we  mav  sleep.  And  you,  Marie,  can  dance  so 
9 


130  THE    SAVOYARD    BOY. 

prellily  the  Savoyarde,  and  I  will  sing"  our  song 
to  it  ;  and  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! — how  my  little  ani- 
iniil  here  will  spring  about  when  it  hears  the 
hurdy-gurdy  !  And  besides,  you  know,  I  can 
sweep  chimneys  too,  and  earn  plenty  of  money 
that  way.' 

'  Ah,  Seppi,  you  are  always  so  light-hearted 
and  merry;  whilst  poor  I — I  feel  as  if  I  could 
rather  grieve  my  heart  out,  and  cry  most  bit- 
terly ! ' 

'  Well,  now,  that  would  be  foolish  !  Would 
that  bring  us  a  step  further  !  And  yonder  lies 
Paris.  Don't  you  know  that  one  may  make 
one's  fortune  in  such  a  place  as  that  ?  Our  old 
Thomas,  at  home,  has  often  enough  told  us 
that ;  and  he  knows  it,  for  he  has  been  in  Paris 
himself.' 

Marie,  who  had  sat  down  to  rest  herself  a 
little,  now  summoned  together  all  her  strength, 
and  arose,  sighing  beneath  the  weight  of  the 
hurdy-gurdy,  and,  with  a  dejected  look,  walked 
on  by  the  side  of  her  more  sanguine  brother. 
When  they  had  gone  on  thus  for  a  little  while, 
Marie  stopped  again,  and  said,  mournfully,  and 
almost  in  tears  :  '  Alas,  Seppi,  what  will  our 
dear  mother  do  now,  so  all  alone  at  home ! 
This  is  just  about  the  time  when  the  bells  must 
be  chiming  there  for  evening  service.  Ah,  how 
very  sad  it  is  not  to  be  able  to  hear  the  sounds 
of  those  pretty  bells  here.' 

'  Why,  Marie,  it  is  true,'  rejoined  the  consol- 


THE    SAVOYARD    BOY.  131 

ing  Seppi,  'we  do  not  hear  them  ourselves,  but 
our  dear  mother  does ;  and  when  she  thinks  of 
us,  and  the  bells  chime  for  prayer,  she  knows 
that  we  are  in  God's  hands,  and  that  he  will  not 
forsake  a  couple  of  poor  children.' 

Just  at  that  moment  they  were  interrupted  by 
the  sudden  tones,  echoed  forth  throuch  the  even- 
ing air,  from  a  loud  peal  of  bells.  The  children 
simultaneously  gave  a  loud  scream  of  lively  joy 
at  these  unexpected  sounds  ;  and  Seppi  exclaim- 
ed, exultingly :  '  There  now,  Marie,  you  see 
there  are  bells  in  Paris  too,  and  they  sound 
quite  differently  from  those  in  our  own  village. 
Come,  come;  we  shall  not  fail  to  thrive  there.' 

And  now  even  Marie  hert^elf  had  gained  cour- 
age, and  so,  forgetting  hunger  and  weariness, 
they  pushed  on  again  stoutly  together. 

The  elated  Seppi,  as  they  stepped  forward, 
continued  exclaiming,  in  a  joyful  tone,  '  Yes, 
yes,  we  will  dance  the  savoyarde,  and  marmot 
shall  perform  his  tricks,  and  we  will  play  the 
hurdy-gurdy  and  sing,  and  I  will  sweep  chim- 
neys— ay,  ay  ;  and  if  we  can  but  once  send  our 
dear  good  mother  some  money — perhaps  actual- 
ity a  gold  piece,  Marie — eh!  only  think  of  that!' 

When  our  little  travellers  entered  Paris,  it  had 
already  grown  quite  dark.  But  what  an  ocean 
of  houses — what  crowds  of  people  and  equi- 
pages— and  what  astonishing  quantities  of  lights 
were  everywhere  scattered  around  !  The  Sa- 
voyards strayed  about   for  an   hour  or  so,  and 


132  THE    SAVOYARD    BOV. 

during  that  time  they  were  completely  bewilder- 
ed by  the  sight  and  bustle.  But  after  the  first 
charm  of  novelty  was  satisfied,  hunger  and 
weariness  returned  only  the  stronger.  '  But 
who  then  will  give  us  something  to  eat,  Seppi,' 
asked  Marie  ;  '  and  where  shall  we  sleep  this 
night  ? ' 

'  Why,  there  are  so  many,  many  houses,'  re- 
turned her  brother,  in  a  rather  dejected  tone ; 
'  surely  there  will  at  least  be  a  corner  for  us  in 
one  of  them  !  Look,  Marie,  yonder  is  a  fine 
large  mansion,  where  there  will  be  no  lark  of 
room ;  come,  let  us  go  and  beg  for  shelter. 
Kind  gentleman,'  said  he,  to  a  man  who  was 
standing  at  the  gate  with  a  long  cane  in  his 
hand,  '  we  are  in  sad  distress  for  a  night's  lodg- 
ing and  a  crust  of  bread  ;  pray  bestow  your 
charity  upon  us,  and  we  will  dance  the  savoy- 
arde,  and,  if  you  like,  our  pretty  marmot  shall 
perform  his  leaps  before  you.' 

'  Why,  you  couple  of  detestable  beggars,'  ex- 
claimed the  porter,  '  do  you  think  the  palace  of 
his  Excellency  is  to  be  converted  into  a  hovel  to 
receive  such  trash  as  you  !  No,  no,  be  off;  we 
want  none  of  your  monkies  nor  Savoyard  dances.' 

Seppi  waited  not  a  moment,  but  seized  Marie's 
hand,  and  led  her  hastily  away  ;  whilst  the  poor 
girl  burst  into  tears  and  sobbed  aloud.  '  Come, 
dear  Marie,  cheer  up,'  said  her  brother,  when 
they  had  gone  on  a  little  way  again  ;  '  you  take 
and  play  now    the    hurdy-gurdy,  and   marmot 


THE    SAVOYAIiD    BOY.  ]'VA 

shall  dance  to  it.'  Marie  wiped  away  her  tears, 
and  they  now  halted  and  commenced  their  per- 
formance ;  but  the  people  passed  by  without,  as 
Seppi  had  expected,  handing  them  a  present,  or- 
offering  them  a  night's  lodging.  It  got  later  and 
later,  and  the  little  girl  shivered  with  cold  and 
grief,  whilst  Seppi,  almost  losing  courage,  utter- 
ed not  a  word. 

They  had  now  reached  a  small  square,  crossed 
by  several  streets.  Marie  sunk  down  on  a  stone, 
and  held  her  hands  before  her  eyes  in  bitter 
lamentation.  At  this  moment  an  elegantly- 
dressed  person  seemed  to  observe  the  children, 
and,  stepping  up.  to  Seppi,  said : — '  My  little 
Savoyard,  you  could  do  me  a  favor.' 

'  Very  willingly,  sir  ;  what  are  your  com- 
mands?' replied  Seppi,  delighted. 

'  Do  you  see  that  large  shop  yonder,  which  is 
lighted  up  so  brilliantly  ?' 

'  What,  opposite  ?  O  yes,  I  see  it.' 

'  Well,  here  you  have  a  gold  coin,  go  in  there 
and  get  it  changed.  In  case  you  are  questioned 
about  it,  say  boldly,  you  have  found  it.  When 
you  come  back  I  will  make  you  a  present.' 

Seppi  gladly  handed  his  monkey  to  his  sister, 
took  the  twenty-franc  piece,  and  ran  across  Avith- 
it  to  the  shop  as  hard  as  he  could  run.  When 
he  had  given  it  to  the  person  in  the  shop  to 
change,  the  latter  looked  at  it  very  closely, 
sounded  it  on  the  counter,  took  it  up  again  and 
examined  it;  and,  at  length,  rushing  towards  the 


134  THE    SAVOYARD    liOY. 

little  Savoyard,  seized  him  by  the  collar,  and 
held  him  tight.  '  You  good-for-nothing  fellow,' 
exclaimed  the  tradesman,  '  confess  at  once  where 
you  got  this  bad  money ." 

The  astonished  lad  had  quite  forgotten  what 
he  ought  to  reply,  and,  trembling,  stammered  out 
the  truth.  But  the  man  was  distrustful,  and 
was  not  at  all  satisfied  with  his  statement.  He 
wished  at  all  events  to  trace  out  the  party  who 
had  resorted  to  such  an  expedient  for  circulating 
base  coin  among  the  public.  Accordingly,  he 
still  retained  his  hold  of  Seppi's  collar,  summon- 
ed a  couple  of  his  people  to  join  him,  and  order- 
ed the  lad  to  lead  the  way  directly  to  where  he 
had  left  the  stranger.  Meantime  the  latter, 
having  found  the  Savoyard  to  remain  rather 
longer  on  his  mission  than  he  expected,  began 
to  think  all  was  not  right,  and  was  confirmed  in 
his  fears  when  he  perceived  the  approach  of  the 
party,  headed  by  the  boy :  he  accordingly  start- 
ed off,  full  tare,  as  fast  as  his  legs  could  carry 
him.  He  was  quickly  pursued  by  the  others, 
who  still  dragged  poor  Seppi  with  them  against 
his  will,  but  their  efTorts  to  overtake  the  culprit 
were  in  vain,  and  they  were  forced  to  give  up 
the  race,  he  having  too  great  a  start  of  them. 
They  then  dismissed  the  dead-weary  Savoyard, 
saying,  '  Be  off,  young  squire ;  you  may  now 
run  wherever  you  like.' 

Run,  indeed  ! — alas  I  poor  Seppi  was  only  too 
glad  to  be  able   to  barely  drag  his  wearied  fef>f 


THE    SAVOYARD   BOY.  136 

ftfter  him.  He  crept  slowly  after  the  others, 
aiiii  thought  of  his  distressed  sister,  who,  doubt- 
less, would  be  waiting  for  him  to  return,  in  the 
deadliest  anxiety  and  alarm.  When  he  at 
length  arrived  at  the  spot  where  he  had  left  her, 
he  looked  everywhere  about — but  his  dear  Marie 
was  gone  !  '  Marie,  Marie,  dear  Marie  ! '  cried 
Seppi,  softly,  but  she  did  not  reply.  'Marie, 
Marie  !'  he  repeated,  but  no  answer.  And  now, 
indeed,  poor  Seppi's  heart  was  broken,  and  he 
was  quite  in  despair.  He  ran  backwards  and 
forwards,  everywhere  about,  calling  out  loudly, 
'Marie!'  but  all  in  vain;  and,  leaving  it  to 
chance,  he  hurried  down  the  first  leading  street 
to  look  for  her. 

The  midnight  hour  had  now  struck,  when 
Seppi,  quite  exhausted  and  faint,  sank  down 
upon  the  step  of  a  house,  and  soon  fell  into  a 
deep  sleep.  The  morning  dawned,  and  our 
.ittle  Savoyard  still  slept  on.  Doubtless  he  was 
dreaming  of  the  mountains  of  his  fatherland — of 
his  dear  parent — the  playfellows  he  had  left  be- 
hind— but,  perhaps  above  all,  of  his  beloved 
sister,  now  wandering  about.  Heaven  only  knew 
where ! 

At  this  moment  a  window  in  the  front  kitchen 
of  the  house,  and  close  to  where  poor  Seppi  was 
sleeping,  was  slowly  opened,  and  a  head  in  a 
white  nightcap  popped  out :  it  was  that  of  the 
pastrycook,  to  whom  part  of  the  house  belonged. 

'  Hallo  I   why,  now,  there's  a  lazy  rascal  for 


136  THE    SAVOYARD    BOY. 

you,'  said  the  pastrycook,  perceiving  the  slum- 
berer;  'snoring  there  in  this  bright  morning,  and 
not  knowing  perhaps  how  he  may  get  a  crust  of 
bread  to  eat  at  mid-day ;  sleeping,  idling,  beg- 
ging, and  stealing.  What  objects  there  are  in 
this  world  to  be  sure.  An  efficient  police  ought 
not  to  tolerate  such  vagabonds.  And  only  see 
how  undisturbedly  the  boy  sleeps  here  in  the 
open  street ;  but  he  is  pretty  sure,  of  course,  that 
thieves  would  make  no' thriving  business  by  him,' 

Whilst  the  tongue  of  the  confectioner  express- 
ed, in  such  fashion,  the  morning  reflections  of  its 
owner,  the  man's  eye  rested  scrutinisingly  upon 
the  boy.  Seppi,  it  should  be  observed,  had  a 
very  agreeable  and  prepossessing  exterior  ;  and 
so  the  idea  suggested  itself  to  the  mind  of  the 
selfish,  avaricious  pastrycook,  whose  own  as- 
sistant had  run  away  from  him  only  the  day  be- 
fore, whether  he  would  not  perhaps  do  well  to 
lake  the  Savoyard  lad  into  his  service  instead. 
'  Such  a  creature,'  thought  he,  '  must  needs  be 
glad  to  earn  a  living,  and  feel  grateful  for  all 
and  everything  one  may  give  him.  Besides,  he 
has  a  good-looking,  likely  face  ;  and  that  he  is 
quick  on  his  legs  there  can  be  no  doubt.' 

Therefore  no  sooner  said  than  done.  The 
confectioner  proceeded  to  open  the  door,  and 
forthwith  greeted  the  slumbering  Seppi  with  a 
gentle  kick.  'Well,  my  idle  fellow,'  said  he, 
*  do  you  intend  to  sleep  it  out  here  the  whole 
of  this  fine  day  ?' 


THE    SAVOYARD    BOY.  137 

Seppi.  half  awake  and  half  asleep,  jumped  up 
and  answered, '  Yes,  sir,  I'll  sweep  your  chimney 
directly.' 

'Do  what? — Sweep  the  chimney  !'  returned 
the  confectioner;  'no,  no,  it's  not  the  time  for 
that  yet.     Come,  get  up  and  rouse  yourself.' 

Seppi  rubbed  his  eyes  ;  but  O,  how  grey  and 
misty  did  the  city  look  by  morning!  'Yes,  sir; 
what  am  I  to  do  then  ? '  he  asked. 

'  Come  with  me,  you  shall  hear  that  directly,' 
answered  the  man,  as  kindly  as  possible.  Seppi 
followed  him  into  the  shop,  and  the  savory 
smell  of  the  warm  pastry  attracted  the  famished 
lad  irresistibly.  '  Listen  to  me,  my  lad,'  quoth 
the  pastrycook,  when  they  had  reached  the  little 
parlor  : — '  I  am  inclined  to  do  you  a  great  ser- 
vice.' Seppi  at  this  pricked  up  his  ears,  for  he 
expected  nothing  less  than  that  the  baker  was 
going  to  make  him  a  present  of  a  few  of  his 
nice  tarts  for  breakfast.  '  You  shall  stay  with 
me,  carry  out  pastry,  help  me  serve  the  custom- 
ers, and  make  yourself  generally  useful  to  me ; 
in  short,  I  will  take  you  entirely  into  my  service 
and  provide  for  you.  Now,  only  think  of  that, 
you  poor,  deserted  fellow  !  and  look  what  I  am 
doing  for  you ;  for  I  am  going  to  give  you  food 
and  clothing,  whilst  now  you  are  in  hourly  risk 
of  being  starved  to  death  ! ' 

What  more  desirable  thing  could  have  befallen 
our  poor  hungry  Savoyard  ?  Yet,  when  the 
pastrycook  spoke  of  '  starving,'  the   thought  of 


138  THE    SAVOYARD    BOY. 

poor  Marie  instantly  made  his  affectionate  heart 
shrink  within  itself.  He  wept  bitterly,  and 
faltered  out  amidst  his  sobs  : — '  Alas  !  sir,  I  have 
a  sister,  poor  dear  Marie,  who  came  with  me  to 
Paris;  I  losi  her  yesterday  evening,  and — O 
heavens! — she  was  very,  very  hungry,  and  had 
not  a  morsel  of  bread.  1  must  indeed,  first  of 
all,  go  and  try  to  find  her.' 

The  brow  of  the  confectioner  gradually  dark- 
ened with  frowns.  '  Foolish  boy,'  said  he,  in  a 
tone  of  vexation  ;  '  what  !•  do  you  pretend  to 
look  for  your  sister  in  Paris  ? — in  a  city  which 
contains  a  whole  million  of  inhabitants,  and 
whose  width  and  length  embraces  so  many 
miles  ?  Why,  you  may  search  your  whole  life 
long,  and  yet  not  find  her  again.  Besides,  she 
may  have  fallen,  in  the  dark,  into  the  river,  or 
have  been  run  over  by  some  carriage  ;  nay,  we 
don't  know  what  may  have  happened  to  her. 
If  it  be  the  will  of  God  that  you  should  find  her 
again,  that  will  come  to  pass  without  your  having 
occasion  to  stir  a  step  in  it.  It  is  nothing  new  in 
Paris  for  children  to  run  away  and  lose  them- 
selves ;  some  do  turn  up  again,  and  some  do  not. 
However,  you  will  have  the  best  opportunity, 
when  carrying  out  the  pastry,  of  meeting  her. 
But  mind,  you  understand  me  Avhen  I  tell  you, 
that  you  must  not  presume,  on  this  account,  to 
loiter  Tin  your  errands  about  the  city,  but  you 
must  keep  straight  on  the  road  I  order  you  to 
follow. 


THE    SAVOYARD    BOY.  139 

Tne  common-place  and  unfeeling  arguments 
used  by  the  confectioner,  by  no  means  served  to 
console  the  affectionate  Seppi ;  still  he  saw 
clearly,  that  a  search  made  in  so  large,  populous, 
and,  to  him,  completely  unknown  city,  would 
most  likely  meet  with  little  or  no  success;  whilst 
he  thought  it  not  quite  impossible  but  that,  in 
his  walks  through  the  capital,  he  might  fall  in 
with  his  dear  Marie.  But  it  was  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  dying  words  of  his  father,  and  which 
that  good  man  had  bequeathed  to  him  in  his  last 
moments,  which  gave  Seppi  the  best  comfort: — 
'  Remember,  dear  boy,'  said  he,  '  you  have  still 
a  Father  in  heaven  above  ;  and  He  watches 
and  takes  care  of  His  children.'  And  so  will 
that  same  Father,  thought  Seppi,  protect  and 
watch  over  poor  Marie  ;  and  thus  consoled  and 
strengthened,  he  accepted  the  confectioner's  offer 
of  engagement.  The  latter  felt  quite  satisfied, 
for  which  he  had  his  good  reasons,  inasmuch  as 
he  treated  his  people  so  badly — giving  them 
little  to  eat,  and  plenty  of  work — that  he  had 
great  difficulty  in  getting  any  for  his  service,  or 
in  retaining  them  in  it.  But  a  chap  like  this, 
thought  he,  who  is  used  to  nothing  better,  will 
still  think  the  very  worst  treatment  good,  in  his 
unhappy  state. 

Seppi  was  now  duly  initiated  in  his  new 
office,  and  received  the  article  of  clothing  which 
his  truant  predecessor  had  left  behind,  called  by 
the  pastrycook  'a  livery!'  a  title  of  honor  still 


140  THE    SAVOYARD    BOY. 

nobly  bestowed  upon  the  old  patched  jacket  (and 
which  formerly  it  might  have  merited)  as  that 
cost  its  master  nothing.  This  worthy  warned 
Seppi  to  take  good  care  of  it,  and  impressed  up- 
on him  most  urgently  never  to  acquire  a  taste 
for  pastry.  This  the  lad  promised,  and  only 
begged  now  for  a  piece  of  bread  to  satisfy  his 
hunger.  '  Why,  I  thought  you  had  already 
breakfasted,'  said  the  heartless  man,  who  seem- 
ed to  forget  that  he  had  lighted  on  the  boy  fast 
asleep. 

Seppi's  service  was  no  very  easy  one  ;  he  was 
however  a  nimble,  attentive  lad,  and  executed 
everything  faithfully.  His  master  had  reason 
to  be  quite  satisfied,  and  really  was  so,  as  far  as, 
generally  speaking,  a  selfish  person  can  be  sat- 
isfied. In  his  numerous  walks  our  little  Savoy- 
ard did  not  neglect  turning  his  eyes  in  every 
direction,  in  hopes,  perchance,  they  might  light 
upon  his  poor  dear  little  sister.  And  when  he 
saw,  at  a  distance,  a  little  girl,  who  in  height 
and  shape  was  like  Marie,  how  did  he  run  after 
her  until  he  overtook  her  ;  but  when,  his  heart 
throbbing,  he  found  it  was  not  his  sister,  he 
would  burst  into  tears,  and  then  think  what  his 
poor  mother  would  say,  if  ever  he  should  come 
home  without  Marie. 

Such  bitter  delusions  Seppi  experienced  daily ; 
yet  he  did  not  give  up  hope.  Marie  and  his 
mother  were  his  constant  thought  day  and  night, 
although  he  slept  so  soundly,  that  the  confec- 


THE    SAVOYARD   BOY.  141 

tioner  felt  vexed  that  a  youngster,  who  had  not 
a  farthing  in  his  possession,  should  rest  so 
tranquilly.  On  this  point  however  his  master 
was  mistaken  ;  for  Seppi,  not  enriched,  it  is  true, 
with  a  halfpenny,  by  the  liberality  of  his  em- 
ployer, obtained,  at  times,  from  the  customers 
who  visited  the  shop,  a  small  piece  of  money, 
by  way  of  a  present,  and  which  he  saved  up. 
carefully  in  his  little  purse,  in  order,  when  a 
favorable  occasion  might  offer,  to  send  the  whole 
to  his  mother.  And  thus  his  store  increased 
every  day. 

On  the  third  floor  dwelt  an  old  widow  lady, 
who,  from  idle  curiosity,  was  ever  anxious  to 
busy  herself  about  all  that  took  place  in  the 
house  and  in  the  neighborhood.  Madame  Eiv- 
age  was  extremely  desirous  to  engage  Seppi  in 
her  interest,  and  had  tried  to  bribe  him,  in  order 
that  she  might  get  him  to  tell  her  all  that  was 
going  on  at  home,  as  well  as  abroad,  in  reference 
to  his  master  and  his  customers.  This  however 
our  hero  always  stedfastly  refused  to  do,  treat- 
ing her  offers  of  money  with  the  contempt  they 
merited,  and  avoiding  her  as  a  dangerous  mis- 
chief-monger. 

There  was  however  another  lodger,  towards 
whom  Seppi,  on  the  other  hand,  felt  great  re- 
spect and  regard  :  this  was  Monsieur  Dumenil, 
who  lived  a  story  higher  than  Madame  Rivage; 
and,  although  his  nppearance  was  needy  and 
careworn,  still  in  his  countenance  there  reposed 


14S  THE    SAVOYARD    BOY. 

that  calm  resolution  and  resignation,  seeming  to 
control  every  adversity,  that  the  heart  of  Seppi 
felt  greatly  influenced  thereby.  Monsieur  Du- 
menil  was  always  very  retired  in  his  manners, 
and  merely  pronounced  the  'good  day'  to  any 
one  he  met  with  belonging  to  the  house.  The 
confectioner  thought  rather  meanly  of  him  be- 
cause he  never  came  into  his  shop  and  patron- 
ised his  pastry.  If  perchance  the  conversation 
turned  upon  him,  he  would  say  : — '  Ay,  ay,  that 
lean,  half-starved  looking  being  never  comes  in 
here  ;  and  I  am  quite  sure,  as  he  cannot  pay  his 
rent,  the  landlord  of  the  house  will  soon  eject 
him.  Why,  you  can  see  poverty  and  misery 
staring  him  in  the  face  when  you  look  at  him  ! 
Shame  upon  such  a  creature  I ' 

Remarks  of  this  kind  always  cut  Seppi  to  the 
heart,  for  he  but  too  well  remembered  that  his 
father  had  been  a  poor  man  too  ;  and  he  never 
forgot  the  many  beautiful  things  the  clergyman 
had  said  about  him  at  his  grave.  Therefore 
our  little  hero,  when  his  master  was  once  launch- 
ing out  very  severely  against  Monsieur  Dumenil, 
plucked  up  a  spirit,  and  said  ; — 'But,  sir,  I  have 
once  heard  our  minister  at  home  tell  me,  that 
rich  and  poor  are  quite  equal  before  God;  and  I 
remember  too  that  there  was  a  man  in  our  vil- 
lage who  had  a  great  deal  of  money,  and  yet 
people  did  not  like  him  because  he  had  got  it  in 
a  bad  way,  as  they  had  good  reason  to  think.' 

When  he  heard  this,  the  confectioner  became 


THE    SAVOYAIiD   BOY.  143 

quite  pale  with  rage,  for  he  felt  how  himself  had 
earned,  and  was  slill  earning,  his  own  money, 
when  he  made  his  pies  of  rabbits'  flesh  instead 
of  hares'  flesh,  and  did  other  things  of  the  same 
kind.  '  Hold  your  tongue,  you  poor  silly  fool,' 
he  returned,  '  what  is  you  minister  and  your 
village  to  me  ?  What  do  you  know  about  rich 
and  poor !  We  are  here  in  Paris,  not  in  your 
wretched  hamlet ;  don't  open  your  mouth  until 
you  are  asked.' 

A  rather  singular,  but,  happily,  not  fatal  acci- 
dent occurred  about  this  time  to  make  Seppi  still 
more  intimately  acquainted  with  Monsieur  Du- 
menil.  The  latter  was  very  much  in  the  habit 
of  passing  his  evenings  from  home,  a  circum- 
stance that  caused  Madame  Rivage,  whose  eye 
nothing  very  easily  escaped,  to  form  various 
conjectures  of  an  ominous,  implicating  nature. 
The  staircase  of  the  house  was  very  steep  and 
intricate  ;  and  being  very  dark,  it  chanced  that 
Monsieur  Dumenil,  one  evening,  made  a  false 
step  in  descending,  and  fell  down  a  whole  flight 
of  stairs.  Just  at  that  moment  Seppi  returned 
home,  and,  rushing  forward,  tried  as  well  as  his 
little  strength  would  allow,  to  assist  the  good 
man  up  again.  But  he  found  that  the  severe 
fall  had  sprained,  and,  as  he  feared,  even  broken 
his  leg.  Poor  Monsieur  Dumenil  felt  great  pain, 
and  was  quite  unable  to  move.  '  If,'  said  he 
faintly,  leaning  upon  the  stairs,  '  there  were  but 
a  doctor  in  the  neighborhood  I '    '  O,  I  know  one, 


144  Till:     SAVOYARD    BOY. 

Monsieur  Dumenil,'  exclaimed  the  compassion- 
ate Savoyard,  'I'll  fetch  him  directly  !'  and  he 
at  once  darted  off.  The  doctor  dwelt  two  or 
three  streets  off,  and  our  humane  messenger  ran 
as  hard  as  he  could.  But,  as  ill-luck  would 
have  it,  the  doctor  was  out, — gone  to  the  coffee- 
house ;  where,  in  fact,  as  the  servant  told  Seppi, 
he  did  not  like  to  be  disturbed.  This  however 
did  not  prevent  Seppi  from  going  to  him  ;  for, 
not  losing  a  moment,  he  ran  as  swiftly  as  possi- 
ble to  the  place  mentioned,  and  sure  enough 
found  the  healing  man  absorbed  in  the  perusal 
of  a  newspaper.  The  French  are  enthusiastic 
readers  of  the  news  of  .the  day,  and  of  course 
Monsieur  Perrot  was  not  an  exception.  Twice 
and  three  times  was  our  anxious  messenger 
forced  to  make  his  application  before  it  was  at- 
tended to,  when  the  doctor  at  length,  throwing 
down  the  paper,  vouchsafed  to  give  him  a  hear- 
ing. 

'  O,  pray  sir,  do  make  haste,'  exclaimed  Seppi ; 
'  a  gentleman  has  just  had  a  sad  accident,  and  I 
much  fear  he  has  broken  his  leg.  Now  do, 
good  Monsieur  Perrot,  have  the  kindness  to 
come  with  me  directly.' 

'  Well,  well,  I  will  come,'  said  the  doctor,  as 
he  cast  a  longing  look  at  the  paper ;  and  taking 
up  his  hat  and  cane,  he  at  last  withdrew  with 
the  boy.  The  slowness  of  the  doctor's  pace 
was  finely  contrasted  with  that  of  his  more  hu- 
mane   guide,    who,  every  now  and    then,  was 


THE    SAVOYARD    BOY.  145 

forced  to  come  back  in  order  to  urge  him  on  to 
give  relief  to  the  suffering  man.  They  arrived 
at  length,  and  found  him  still  in  the  same  state 
in  which  Seppi  had  left  him  ;  he  leant  on  the 
surgeon's  arm,  and  with  his  and  Seppi's  aid  he 
was  assisted  up  stairs. 

The  reception  which  poor  Seppi  met  with 
this  time,  when  he  returned,  on  the  part  of  the 
confectioner,  was  certainly  not  of  the  most  plea- 
sant kind.  '  Why,  you  good-for-nothing  lout,' 
he  exclaimed,  '  where  have  you  been  stopping 
so  long?  Now  mind,  you  rascal,  for  this  you 
shall  go  to  bed  hungry,  not  a  morsel  shall  you 
have  this  night ! ' 

'  Why,  sir,  poor  Monsieur  Dumenil  has  fall- 
en down  stairs,  and  I  have  only  been  to  fetch  a 
doctor  for  him,'  appealed  the  poor  boy  in  excuse. 

This  only  served  to  enrage  his  savage  mas- 
ter the  more.  '  Now,  only  hear  that,'  he  ex- 
claimed ;  '  so  Monsieur  Dumenil  has  tumbled 
down  stairs,  and  you  pretend  you  have  been  to 
fetch  a  doctor  for  him  !  Pray,  in  whose  service 
are  you  then  ?  who  clothes  you  ?  who  gives  you 
food  ?  and  what  does  that  poor,  half-starved 
wretch  concern  you?  He  may  fall  up  and  down 
stairs  too  for  what  I  care  ;  nay,  break  his  neck 
in  the  bargain  ? ' 

The  fact  is,  that  this  humane  confectioner 
thought  he  had  very  good  reason  to  express  his 
particular  indignation  at  Seppi's  absence  just  at 
10 


146  THE    SAVOYARD    BOY. 

this  moment,  inasmuch  as  this  was  the  evening 
when  the  club  to  which  he  belonged  met  togeth- 
er ;  and  as  he  was  one  of  its  most  zealous  mem- 
bers, he  was  sadly  annoyed  at  being  half  an 
hour  beyond  his  time — for  the  supper.  In  re- 
turn for  this  however,  he  had  his  revenge  upon 
poor  Seppi,  for  the  poor  boy  was  forced  to  go 
to  bed  without  a  morsel.  But,  hungry  as  he 
was,  his  feeling  heart  turned  towards  the  suffer- 
ing Monsieur  Dumenil,  and  his  anxiety  lest  that 
poor  man  had  actually  broken  his  leg,  made  him 
quite  forget  his  own  deserted  state.  But  on  the 
following  morning  his  fears  were  at  an  end,  for 
Monsieur  Dumenil's  servant  came  down  stairs 
to  order  some  pies  for  her  master.  '  What  I ' 
exclaimed  the  confectioner ;  '  do  you  really  mean 
to  say  you  want  some  pies  for  Monsieur  Dume- 
nil? Why,  you  surely  make  a  mistake,  my 
good  woman  ! ' 

'  Is  there  anything  so  wonderful,  pray,  in  the 
order?'  she  asked:  '  why,  I  am  not  deaf;  and 
those  were  the  instructions  he  gave  me — and 
mind,  you  are  to  send  them  up  by  Seppi.' 

'  Well,  now,  only  think  of  that ! '  grumbled  the 
pastrycook,  who  was  not  at  all  satisfied  with  his 
new  customer.  '  Well,  here,  Seppi,  take  them 
up  ;  but,  mind,  if  the  question  be  about  the 
money  to-morrow,  the  cakes  to-day — understand 
me — that  goes  for  nothing.  For,  once  for  all,  I 
give  no  credit ;  here  you  have  the  goods,  but 
here  must  also  be  the  cash.     Now,  be  off! ' 


THE    SAVOYARD   BOY.  147 

It  need  not  be  said  with  what  haste  our  good 
Seppi  bustled  up  stairs,  and  how  little  attention 
he  paid  to  the  questions  of  the  anxious  Madame 
Rivage,  who  met  him  on  the  way,  as  to  what  he 
was  carrying  up  to  Monsieur  Dumenil.  He 
paused  not  a  moment  until  he  reached  the  room, 
where  he  found  the  patient  reclining  upon  a 
sofa.  When,  in  reply  to  his  anxious  inquiries, 
he  found  that  Monsieur  Dumenil  had  not  broken 
his  leg,  in  the  joy  of  his  heart  he  wept  tears  of 
sincere  gratitude.  This  affectionate  feeling  of 
the  kind  lad  was  not  lost  upon  the  worthy  man, 
who  now,  contrary  to  his  usual  habits,  entered 
upon  a  little  conversation  with  the  boy.  He 
asked  him  about  his  birthplace,  and  how  long 
he  had  been  in  Paris,  &c.  Seppi  told  him  his 
simple  tale,  and  how  he  had  lost  his  dear  sister 
Marie.  '  Ah,  dear  sir  ! '  said  he,  '  would  we  had 
never  come  to  this  place ;  and  yet  we  were  forc- 
ed to  come,  for  we  could  not,  all  of  us  together, 
have  managed  well  at  home  ;  and  Marie  and  I 
would  have  been  too  much  for  our  poor  mother. 
What  could  we  do  ?  We  were  wretched,  and 
so  we  followed  the  advice  of  old  Thomas,  who 
said — 'Children,  if  you  love  your  mother,  which 
I  know  you  do,  you  must  go  to  Paris.  •  There 
you  will  earn  money,  I  know,  for  I  have  been 
there  myself,  when  I  was  your  age  ;  and  if  you 
are  active,  and  early  and  late  at  work,  you  will 
succeed  in  procuring  for  your  dear  mother  an 
easy  old  age  ' '      So  we   made  up  our  minds, 


148  THE    SAVOYARD    BOY. 

Marie  and  I ;  but  our  poor  mother  wept  bitterly 
when  she  heard  of  it,  and  would  on  no  account 
part  with  us ;  however,  at  length  she  gave  way 
to  our  persuasions  and  consented.  Our  kind 
old  neighbor,  Thomas,  however,  who  had  given 
us  this  advice,  enhanced  it  still  more,  for  on  the 
evening  before  we  left,  he  bought  for  us  a  hurdy- 
gurdy  and  a  marmot,  which  he  very  kindly  pre- 
sented to  us  on  parting.  Alas  !  poor,  dear  Marie, 
did  I  but  know  what  had  become  of  you,  with 
that  poor  little  marmot  and  the  hurdy-gurdy 
which  our  good  Thomas  gave  us  !  The  part- 
ing from  our  dear  mother  I  shall  never  forget, 
and  yet  I  was  full  of  hope  when  on  my  road  to 
Paris ;  but  when  getting  there,  to  part  so  dis- 
astrously from  my  poor  Marie,  my  beloved  sister ! 
— Ah,  Monsieur  Dumenil,  it  grieves  me  to  think 
of  her.  Tell  me,  do  you  think  I  shall  ever  find 
her  again  ? ' 

'  That,  my  kind  boy,  I  cannot  possibly  sa.y, 
for  it  depends  upon  the  will  of  God ;  but  that 
will,  which  is  much,  much  wiser  than  even  the 
wisest  of  this  world  can  conceive,  be  assured, 
protects  your  dear  sister  and  yourself.  That 
kind  Father  in  heaven  will  not  forsake  your 
sister,  nor  leave  her  without  bread  when  hungry, 
but  will  lead  her  to  kind-hearted  people.' 

'  Yes,  Monsieur  Dumenil,'  said  the  affected 
boy,  in  tears,  '  that  shall  always  give  me  confi- 
dence when  I  think,  in  fear,  of  the  fate  of  my 
poor  Marie.     Good  night,  sir,  God  bless  you  ! ' 


THE    SAVOYARD    BOY.  149 

Poor  Seppi  now  crept  down  stairs,  and  went 
quickly  to  bed,  much  consoled  by  what  Monsieui 
Dumenil  had  said. 

In  the  morning,  his  master's  first  inquiry  was 
for  the  money  from  his  new  customer;  he  count- 
ed it,  and  found  it  all  right,  not  a  farthing  miss- 
ing. *  And  to-morrow,  sir,  I  am  to  go  up  again,' 
said  Seppi. 

'  Quite  right,'  said  the  master ;  '  if  this  gentle- 
man pays,  I  care  not  how  much  he  has  of  my 
pastry.  Why,  he  appears  to  have  got  a  very 
sudden  relish  for  it ! '  But  herein  the  bitter 
sweet-cake  maker  was  Avrong,  if  he  thought  that 
his  new  customer  felt  any  desire  for  his  pastry, 
for  his  only  object  was,  by  these  means,  to  see 
more  of  his  little  slave,  the  poor  Savoyard  ;  and, 
naturally,  Seppi  took  good  care  to  meet  his  kind 
friend's  wishes,  by  duly  taking  up,  every  morn- 
ing, what  was  required. 

Just  about  this  time,  an  o'ccurrence  took  place 
which  excited,  in  the  breast  of  Seppi,  the  liveli- 
est hopes  that  he  might  recover  his  dear  sister. 
Whilst  walking  through  the  streets,  he  met  a 
gentleman,  in  all  appearance  the  same  who  had 
formerly  done  him  the  kind  service  of  making 
him  the  means  of  exchanging  base  coin. 

'  Why,'  said  Seppi,  to  himself,  '  that  is  the 
person  who  was  standing  near  Marie  when  I 
left  her  to  change  his  bad  money  !  Surely  he 
must  know  something  about  her  ! '  He  hastened 
therefore  after  him,  and,  just  as  he  had  ove^ 


150  THE    SAVOYARD    BOY. 

taken  him,  the  man  entered  a  house.  Seppi 
was  about  following  him  into  the  place,  when 
he  was  thrust  back  by  the  porter,  none  being 
admitted  but  gamblers — such  only  being  the 
visiters  received  there. 

'  But,  pray,'  inquired  Seppi  of  the  man, '  what 
is  the  name  of  the  gentleman  just  gone  in  ?' 

'O,  that. we  don't  know,'  was  the  snappish 
answer. 

'  And  yet  I  should  very  much  wish  to  know,' 
entreated  Seppi. 

'  Why,  you  impudent  varlet !  pack  yourself  off 
this  moment!'  exclaimed  the  man,  in  a  passion. 

With  heavy  heart,  our  poor  Savoyard  gave  up 
all  hope  of  attaining  his  object  here,  and  return- 
ed home.  On  the  following  morning,  he  in- 
formed Monsieur  Dumenil  of  what  had  taken 
place.  The  latter  however  was  by  no  means 
very  sanguine  about  the  matter,  for,  supposing 
Seppi  had  succeeded  in  questioning  the  man 
upon  the  subject,  how  little  could  he,  under  the 
most  favorable  point  of  view,  communicate  about 
Marie's  fate  ;  and  had  he  not  too  much  reason  too 
to  deny  all  knowledge  of  that  evening's  transac- 
tion ? 

*  0,  my  poor,  poor  mother ! '  exclaimed  the 
boy,  in  lamentation ;  '  how  she  will  cry  about 
Marie !  Yes,  and  even  if  I  do  send  her  the 
twenty  francs,  and  she  hears  nothing  from  Marie, 
I  am  quite  sure  the  money  alone  will  give  her 
no  joy  ' 


THE   SAVOYARD    BOY.  151 

'  What ! '  inquired  Monsieur  Dumenil,  rathei 
astonished ;  '  are  you  going  to  send  your  mother 
twenty  francs  ? ' 

'  Yes,  sir,  I  wish  to  do  so ;  and  I  have  already 
saved  something  towards  it,  but  still  it  will  take 
a  whole  year  yet  before  I  can  make  up  that  sum ; 
but  never  mind.  Ah,  dear  !  how  happy  must 
rich  people  be  ! ' 

'  Do  you  think  so,  Seppi  ?  But  it  is  riot  as  you 
think,  Seppi ;  for  there  are  very  rich  people,  who 
drive  about  in  splendid  carriages,  who  are  any 
thing  but  happy  ;  for  there  are  too  many  among 
them  to  whose  wealth  the  sighs  and  curses  of 
the  unfortunate  adhere,  and  too  many  pass  every 
moment  of  their  life  in  dread  of  death ;  such 
therefore,  Seppi,  we  cannot  fancy  ever  enjpy 
happiness.  True  and  perfect  happiness,  my 
good  boy,  consists  in  not  wishing  otherwise  than 
as  is  the  will  of  God ;  because  He,  in  His  su- 
preme wisdom,  guides  us  over  the  best  paths. 
If  it  be  His  will  that  we  should  remain  poor,  we 
ought  to  bear  this  poverty  with  resignation,  and 
not  desire  anything  beyond  ,  and  if,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  be  His  desire  that  we  should  obtain 
riches,  we  should,  in  all  humility  and  gratitude, 
employ  them  to  the  honor  of  the  Heavenly  Giver.' 

'  Ah,  yes,  dear*  Monsieur  Dumenil,  I  wish  to 
be  contented  too  ;  only  I  could  not  help  thinking 
of  my  poor  mother,  and  wishing  I  could  only 
once  send  her  a  good  sum.  O,  that  would  be  so 
delightful,  you  know,  Monsieur  Dumenil ! ' 


152  THE    SAVOYARD    BOY. 

•  If  it  be  the  will  of  God,  Seppi,  then  be  as- 
sured He  will  give  you  the  means  of  putting 
your  affectionate  object  into  force ;  for  He  will 
bring  you  into  a  situation,  where  you  may  be 
enabled  to  make  a  more  profitable  use  of  youi 
time.' 

*  At  any  rate,'  exclaimed  the  lad,  with  pleasure, 
'  I  know  how  to  read  and  write.  Monsieur  Du- 
menil ;  I  have  learnt  that  already.' 

Monsieur  Dumenil's  foot  now  got  better  every 
day,  so  that  at  length  he  was  enabled  to  walk 
about  again.  Meanwhile,  Madame  Rivage's 
curiosity  respecting  his  means  of  living,  and  so 
forth,  had  not  as  yet  been  satisfied,  in  spite  of 
the  continual  questions  she  put  to  Seppi.  One 
day,  in  order  to  try  him  once  more,  she  sent  him 
for  some  pies,  and  then  used  every  effort  to  in- 
duce him  to  tell  her  ;  but  all  in  vain.  '  Well, 
well,'  said  she,  in  her  vexation,  and  trying  to 
detain  him  still  longer,  '  you  must  run  and  get 
me  this  franc  piece  changed,  else  I  cannot  pay 
you.' 

'  0,  I  have  got  some  money,  and  can  give  you 
change  now,  at  once,'  said  the  innocent  Seppi, 
as  he  drew  forth  his  little  treasure. 

The  old  beldam  opened  her  eyes  when  she 
saw  this,  and  exclaimed  : — '  Indeed  !  if  you  are 
so  rich,  then,  pray  what  wages  does  your  mas- 
ter give  you  ? ' 

At  this  the  poor  boy's  face  turned  quite  red, 
and  he  answered,  hesitatingly, — '  Nothing,  mad- 


THE    SAVOYARD   BOY.  163 

ame  ;  these  are  little  presents  which  I  have  re- 
ceived.' 

'  So,  so,'  said  Madame  Rivage,  when  Seppi 
had  retired  ;  '  now  I  have  you  in  my  power, 
you  little  obstinate  urchin  !  and  that  Monsieur 
Dumenil  too,  of  whom  you  are  so  fond,  I'll  set 
him  against  the  pastry,  for  no  more  shall  you 
take  him  !' — and  she  kept  her  word. 

She  no  sooner  met  her  fellow  lodger,  who 
was  just  going  out,  than  she  very  graciously 
accosted  him,  and  said  : — '  My  excellent  Mon- 
sieur Dumenil,  I  have  felt  very  much  for  you  ; 
and  then  too  you  have  eaten  pastry  every  day.' 

'  How,'  asked  Dumenil,  quite  astonished  ;  '  I 
really  don't  understand  you  ;  what  has  your 
pity  to  do  with  the  pastry  ? ' 

'  0,  why  ?'  said  she,  in  an  undertone,  '  I  will 
tell  you  quickly.  You  know,  perhaps,  that 
there  are  people  in  Paris,  whose  sole  business 
consists  in  stealing  cats  ;  well,  it  is  such  cats  as 
our  pastrycook  here  buys,  kills,  and  makes  his 
pies  of;  and — but  of  course  I  need  not  tell  you 
any  more.  But  is  it  not  horrible  to  think  of? 
It  is  true,  I  assure  you  ;  I  have  it  from  the  best 
authority ;  pray  therefore  eat  no  more  of  those 
pies,  good  Monsieur  Dumenil.' 

'  Is  it  possible  ! '  exclaimed  Monsieur  Dumenil, 
in  seeming  indignation.  '  Well,  I'll  bring  the 
man  to  book  for  this  directly  ;  he  shall  certainly 
not  go  unpunished.' 

But  Madame  Rivage,  in  alarm,  held  him  b;i(  k  : 


154  THE    SAVOYARD    BOY. 

— '  Stop,  Stop,'  she  cried,  *  you  surely  will  not 
betray  me  ?  Remember,  for  Heaven's  sake,  it 
is  told  you  in  confidence— it  is  a  secret.' 

'  Why,  madame,'  replied  Monsieur  Dumenil, 
gravely,  '  you  must  either  know  it  for  certain, 
in  which  case  it  is  your  duty  to  bring  such  dis- 
honesty to  light,  that  it  may  be  punished ;  or,  if 
it  is  merely  supposition,  you  are  acting  extreme- 
ly bad  in  spreading  a  report  which  must  serious- 
ly injure  this  man.' 

'  Well,  well,'  rejoined  Madame  Rivage,  morti- 
fied, '  I  see  very  clearly  my  sympathy  and  can- 
dor will  be  ill  repaid.  Do  as  you  like,  sir  ;  tell 
it,  or  tell  it  not ;  I  care  little  about  it ;  only  that, 
if  you  are  foolish  enough  to  repeat  what  I  have 
told  you  to  the  man,  I  shall  take  good  care  to 
deny  it !  I  am  sure  I  don't  want  to  get  myself 
into  any  scrape  ;  for,  thank  Heaven  !  I  live  in 
peace  and  good  will.     I  know  what  I  live  upon ; 

whilst  other   folks,  who   eat  pastry Adieu, 

Monsieur  Dumenil,  adieu  ! ' 

Feeling  rather  uneasy  in  her  mind,  lest  Mon- 
sieur Dumenil  should  really  inform  the  baker 
of  what  she  had  stated,  the  malicious  woman 
thought  she  had  better  be  beforehand  with  him  ; 
and  therefore  at  once  hastened  to  the  man,  and 
insinuated  that  Monsieur  Dumenil  had  express- 
ed himself  very  disparagingly  about  his  pies : — 
'In  fact,'  added  she,  *  he  said,  one  could  not  at 
all  tell  what  was  in  them,  the  taste  was  so  very 
peculiar.' 


THE    SAVOYARD    BOY.  155 

'  Indeed !  Well,'  exclaimed  the  enraged  but 
rather  confused  pieman,  '  he  had  better  not  say 
that  in  my  hearing !  My  pies,  indeed  !  which 
are  as  good  as  any  possibly  can  be ! ' 

•  Well,  well,  my  good  man,'  said  Madame 
Rivage,  '  never  mind  what  such  a  person  says 
about  you — a  person,  about  whom  nothing  is 
known  as  to  how  he  exists  from  one  day  to  the 
other.  .  But  never  mind,  its  not  over  yet ;  much 
may  still  come  to  light  about  that  man.  By-the- 
bye,  I  want  to  tell  you  something  else ;  what 
was  it  ? — 0,  ay,  your  little  Savoyard  boy  !  I 
suppose  you  hold  him  to  be  a  very  honest  lad  ? ' 

'  Why,  yes,  madame,  the  fellow  is  honest,  al- 
though now-a-days  we  ought  to  trust  nobody, 
and,  least  of  all,  a  wandering  Savoyard,  whom 
God  has  thrown  upon  the  world  to  steal.' 

'  Well,  I  am  glad  you  are  satisfied  with  him. 
But  only  think,  this  very  day  I  saw  him  with  a 
purse  full  of  money  in  his  possession  ?  ' 

'  What !  A  purse  full  of  money  !  You  are 
joking,  madame.' 

*  Not  I  indeed,  for  I  never  joke.  You  only 
ask  him  upon  his  oath,  and  he  can't  deny  it.  I 
say,  a  purse  full  of  money.' 

'  Then  I  am  sure  he  has  been  robbing  me,' 
exclaimed  the  pastrycook,  whose  faith  in  Seppi's 
honesty  all  at  once  vanished.  '  So,  so  ;  I'll 
make  him  feel  it!  To  rob  me!  I,  who  gave 
him  clothing  and  food !  ah,  if  you  only  knew, 
madame,  what  I  have  done  for  that  rascal !    But 


156  THE    SAVOYARD    BOY. 

now  I'll  kick  the  scoundrel  out — I'll  give  him  to 
a  policeman — I'll ' 

Just  at  that  moment  poor  Seppi  returned,  and 
his  master,  who  had  now  worked  himself  up  to 
the  conviction  that  the  boy  had  robbed  him, 
rushed  towards  him,  and  seizing  him  by  the 
hair,  shook  him,  and  called  out — '  Give  up  the 
money,  you  rascal,  that  you  have  stolen  from 
me!' 

The  poor  boy  was  so  alarmed  that  he  trembled 
every  limb.  '  Heaven  is  my  witness,  that  I 
have  never  robbed  you  !'  he  exclaimed. 

'  Come,  out  with  that  purse  full  of  money,  you 
lying  scoundrel,  you  have  one — that  I  know  ! ' 

'  There  it  is,'  said  Seppi,  drawing  out  of  his 
pocket  the  little  purse  containing  the  few  pieces 
of  money  ;  *  that  is  the  purse,  if  you  mean  that, 
and  it  is  the  same  which  madame  there  saw  this 
morning.' 

The  baker  shook  out  its  contents,  and  said 
— *  Now,  confess  at  once  how  you  robbed  me  of 
this  money ! ' 

'  Heaven  shall  be  my  judge,'  exclaimed  the 
poor  boy,  weeping,  '  if  there  is  a  single  farthing 
of  it  yours  !  Every  one  of  them  was  given  to 
me ;  but  take  it  all  if  that  is  what  you  want. 
Monsieur  Dumenil  knows  well  that  I  saved  it 
up  for  my  mother ;  and  you  ought  to  be  asham- 
ed of  yourself,  Madame  Rivage,  to  state  such 
falsehoods  of  me.' 

'  What,  me  ! '  said  the  malicious  woman,  who 


THE    SAVOYARD    BOY.  157 

now  began  to  regret  being  a  witness  of  this 

scene  ;   '  I '  but  she  now  became  still  more 

confused,  for  just  at  that  moment  Monsieur  Du- 
menil  entered  the  shop.  He  had  just  returned 
home,  and  his  ear  caught  the  sound  of  the  boy's 
voice ;  and  to  whom  was  his  appearance  more 
welcome  than  to  poor  Seppi  ? 

'  What  is  the  matter,  Seppi  ?  What  have  you 
done  ? '  kindly  asked  his  friend,  who,  when  he 
saw  the  purse  and  money,  soon  guessed  the  truth. 

'  Pray  mind  your  own  business,  and  don't  in- 
terfere here  at  all,'  exclaimed  the  confectioner  ; 
'  this  boy  is  in  my  service,  and  I  shall  do  with 
him  what  I  like.     Do  you  understand  me  ? ' 

'  Quite  right ;  I  understand  you,  sir,'  returned 
Monsieur  Dumenil,  calmly  ;  '  but  it  is  possible 
you  have  made  a  mistake.' 

'  Mistake ! '  cried  out  the  baker,  still  more 
harshly;  'I  tell  you  this  rascal  has  robbed  me — ' 

'  Ah,  Monsieur  Dumenil,'  said  the  boy,  '  the 
money  that  I  have  saved  up  to  send  to  my  dear 
mother——' 

'  Silence,  you  good-for-nothing  fellow.  I  say 
you  have  robbed  me  ;  but  you  shall  not  keep  the 
money ;  you  shall  be  turned  out  of  my  service 
this  day — nay,  this  very  minute  ! ' 

'  Be  it  so,  Seppi,'  said-  Monsieur  Dumenil ; 
'  Your  master  has  discharged  you  from  his  ser- 
vice ;  now  take  off  that  jacket  and  follow  me — 
I  will  take  you  into  mine.' 

'  What !   would   you  dare  to  take  away  my 


158  THE    SAVOYARD    BOY. 

errand  boy  ? '  exclaimed  the  baker  in  a  threaten- 
ing voice  ;  for  he  had  by  no  means  been  in 
earnest  when  he  talked  of  turning  Seppi  away, 
whilst  the  overjoyed  boy  lost  not  a  moment,  but 
hurried  off  his  jacket  at  once,  and  was  speedily 
ready  to  follow  his  new  master. 

'  You  may  keep  the  money  you  have  taken 
from  the  boy,'  said  Monsieur  Dumenil,  without 
changing  his  calm,  but  firm  tone  of  voice.  '  You, 
yourself,  have  discharged  the  boy,  and  therefore 
you  can  no  longer  lay  claim  to  him.' 

'  Impudent  fellow  ! '  exclaimed  the  pastrycook, 
enraged.  '  Base  slanderer,  as  you  are,  to  accuse 
me  of  making  bad  pies !  Tell  me,  what  is  it 
you  dared  to  say  about  my  pies  ?  what  is  it 
I  make  them  of,  eh  ?  Here,  Madame  Rivage, 
you  are  my  witness  ;  repeat  what  he  said,  for  it 
was  to  you  he  spoke.' 

Madame  was  not  a  little  astonished  to  find 
herself  so  suddenly  called  upon  as  a  witness. 
'  Why — yes — yes — '  she  stuttered,  '  but  it  is 
hardly  worth  repeating — besides,  I  just  recollect 

that  I  must  go  shopping ' 

.  '  Stop  a  moment,  madame,'  said  Monsieur  Du- 
menil ;  '  you  appear  to  have  been  doubly  busy 
here ;  for  it  was  yourself,  if  you  recollect,  who 
warned  me  against  those  pies,  because  they  con- 
tained cats'  meat.' 

'  Good  Heavens !  Is  that  true,  madame  ?  Did 
you  do  that?'  exclaimed  the  pieman. 

'  I  tell  you  I  know  nothing  about  it;  nothing ! 


THE    SAVOYARD   BOY.  159 

Therefore,  don't  ask  me  anything  about  it.  I 
have  nothing  to  say — I  never  said  anything  ! ' 
cried  madame,  hurriedly. 

'  I  will  not  detain  you  any  longer,  madame,' 
observed  Monsieur  Dumenil.  '  I  have  only  to 
request,  as  I  kave  this  morning  purchased  the 
house  here  in  which  you  live,  that  within  a 
month  from  this  time  you  will  remove  to  anoth- 
er dwelling.' 

At  this  announcement,  the  old  lady,  between 
shame  and  surprise,  could  scarcely  tell  how  she 
felt.  What !  Monsieur  Dumenil  have  a  house 
like  this!  Involuntarily  even  the  baker  took  off 
his  cap,  for  he  venerated  nothing  so  much  as 
riches.  But  to  his  no  little  surprise  and  morti- 
fication, in  return.  Monsieur  Dumenil  said, 
calmly,  to  him  likewise — '  I  give  you,  sir,  also 
warning  to  quit  this  house  within  a  month!' 
and  taking  our  happy  Savoyard  by  the  hand  he 
quitted  the  shop,  leaving  behind  him  two  indi- 
viduals, a  prey  to  the  most  bitter  feelings  of  rage 
and  wonder  at  this  unexpected  change  of  things. 

'  And  now,  Seppi,'  said  his  benevolent  guide, 
'  let  us  go  and  select  a  suit  of  clothes  for  you, 
for  henceforward  I  will  provide  you  with  every- 
thing, and  teach  you  what  you  stand  in  need  of. 
Thus  you  see,  my  good  boy,  God  has  now  placed 
you  in  a  positron  to  enable  you  to  assist  your 
mother  in  her  old  age ;  and  I  hope,  Seppi,  you 
will  be  grateful  to  God,  and  never  forget  the 
love  He  has  shown  yo".' 


160  THE    SAVOYARD   BOY. 

The  poor  Savoyard's  feelings  were  so  over- 
come, that  he  could  not  find  words  to  thank  his 
protector ;  but  his  filled  eyes  proclaimed  more 
than  language  could  have  expressed. 

The  fact  is,  that  Monsieur  Dumenil  had  un- 
expectedly come  into  the  possession  of  consider- 
able properly  but  a  few  days  before  this  event, 
and  he  was  now  anxious  to  devote  it  to  useful 
purposes.  Accordingly,  he  had  at  once  pur- 
chased the  house  he  lodged  in — it  being  for  sale 
— and  had  resolved  to  convert  it  into  a  manu- 
factory, v^hich  he  intended  to  establish,  for 
the  purpose  of  giving  employment  to  poor  peo- 
ple. 

Seppi  and  his  philanthropic  friend  had  not 
proceeded  far  on  their  way  to  the  tailor's  shop, 
when  they  unexpectedly  met  several  policemen, 
having  charge  of  a  person  dressed  in  the  height 
of  fashion.  Seppi,  at  sight  of  him,  uttered  a 
loud  cry  of  astonishment ;  for  in  him  he,  once 
again,  immediately  recognized  the  individual 
from  whom  he  had  received  the  base  money  to 
exchange,  and  whom  he  had  left  standing  near 
his  Marie.  Monsieur  Dumenil  rushed  forward, 
and,  overtaking  the  constables,  begged  them  to 
-stop  a  moment,  whilst  he  questioned  the  man 
upon  the  subject.  This  they  did  instantly,  say- 
ing, they  had  him  in  custody  for  coining  false 
money.  Monsieur  Dumenil  then  asked  him  if 
he  knrew  anything  abou<t  the  sister  of  that  lad, 
whom,  of  course,  he  must  recollect  as  the  one  he 


THE    SAVOYABD   BOY.  161 

had  sent,  on  Ji  certain  evening,  to  gti  a  gold 
piece  changed. 

'  Not  I  indeed  ! — I  took  no  notice  of  the  lit- 
tle girl,'  replied  the  man  ;  and  persisting  in  his 
ignorance.  Monsieur  Dumenil  was  of  course 
obliged  to  give  it  up,  and  the  party  resumed 
their  progress  with  their  prisoner.  Thus  poor 
Seppi  was  again  left  in  painful  doubt  and  anxiety. 

It  is  now,  however,  full  lime  that  we  should 
seek  around  for  little  Marie,  and  ascertain  what 
has  been  her  fate  since  her  separation  from  her 
brother. 

In  vain  did  she  continue  to  await  the  return 
of  Seppi  ;  and  after  sitting  on  the  step  in  the 
most  anxious  and  painful  expectation,  she  at 
length  rose,  and  proceeded  across  to  the  shop, 
to  inquire  about  him  :  they,  however,  only  told 
her,  that  they  had  left  him  in  one  of  the  streets 
some  distance  off,  and,  as  it  was  so  dark,  they 
supposed  he  must  have  missed  his  way.  Alas, 
poor  Marie  ! — what  was  she  to  do  ?  Tired,  and 
almost  fainting  with  hunger,  she  could  hardly 
drag  her  legs  along,  loaded  as  she  was  with  the 
hurdy-gurdy  and  the  marmot,  sobbing  her  poor  lit- 
tle heart  out.  She  walked  on,  as  well  as  she  could, 
down  one  street  and  then  another,  but  all  in 
vain,  nowhere  could  she  find  Seppi.  Some  boys 
happening  to  pass,  she  asked  them  if  they  had 
perhaps  seen  a  little  Savoyard  boy  about  :  :inii 
one  of  the  young  rascals  replied.  '  Yt  ^.  he  was 
11 


162  THE    SAVOYARD    BOY. 

sure  he  had  seen  him  in  a  street  a  little  way 
off.'  She  then  said  :  '  O,  will  you  take  care  of 
my  hurdy-gurdy  and  the  marmot,  while  I  run 
after  him,  for  you  see  I  can  scarcely  walk  with 
such  a  load  ?' 

'  O,  yes,'  says  one,  kindly,  '  I  will  take  care 
of  them  till  you  return.  But  you  must  make 
haste  after  him,  for  he  was  walking  very  fast.' 

The  unsuspecting  girl  lost  not  a  moment,  but, 
giving  both  to  the  boy's  care,  hastened,  as  fast 
as  possible,  in  the  direction  given  ;  and,  when 
there,  looked  everywhere  around,  calling  out, 
'  Seppi  !  Seppi  !'  but  she  received  no  ans^ver. 
Poor  Marie,  finding  it  in  vain  to  wait  any  longer, 
slowly  returned  to  where  she  had  left  the  boy 
with  the  hurdy-gurdy  and  the  marmot ;  but,  on 
coming  there,  looked  in  vain  for  him.  Her  eyes 
searched  everywhere  around,  but  it  was  useless, 
for  boy,  hurdy-gurdy,  and  marmot,  had  vanish- 
ed. And  now,  this  last  blow  was  too  much  for 
Marie.  She  had  lost  her  brother,  and  now  she 
had  lost  what  was  to  procure  her  food  —  in  that 
great,  strange  city  !  Ah,  what  tears  of  sorrow 
and  lamentation  thepoor  afflicted  girl  shed,  when 
she  thought  of  her  wretched  forlorn  state  ! 

It  grew  later  and  later  ;  and,  casting  her  tearful 
eyes  once  more  around  her,  in  despair,  she  caught 
sight  of  a  lady,  who  had  just  stopped  before  the 
door  of  a  large  house,  and  rang  the  bell.  She 
was  attended  by  a  female  servant,  or  companion, 
who  held  in  her  arras,  carefully  wrapped  up,  like 


THE   SAVOYARD   BOY.  163 

an  infant,  a  little  lap-dog.  Marie  rushed  to- 
wards tho  lady,  and  exclaimed,  beseechingly  : 
•  Ah,  for  Heaven's  sake  !  dear,  dear  lady,  pray, 
pray  take  piiy  on  me  ;  do  take  me  in  with  you, 
and  give  me  a  crust  of  bread,  and  a  night's  shel- 
ter in  any  corner  of  your  house.  I  am  trem- 
bling all  over  from  fatigue  and  hunger.  I  have 
lost  my  brother  Seppi,  and  only  arrived  in  Paris 
this  evening  !' 

The  lady  turned  round,  and  said,  ill-natured- 
ly :  *  Go  about  your  business,  do,  you  low  crea- 
ture ;  don't  disturb  my  sweet  Bijou's  sleep  with 
your  noise.' 

'  Ah,  good  lady,  do  not,  pray  do  not  leave  me 
to  sleep  in  the  streets  all  night ;  do  take  me 
with  you,  I  will  not,  depend  upon  it,  disturb 
any  one.' 

'  Take  pity  upon  her,  madam,'  said  her  com- 
panion with  the  dog  ;  '  she  would  just  suit  you, 
for  you  want  just  such  a  little  girl  as  her,  to 
take  care  of  Bijou,  and  wait  upon  and  amuse  him.' 

Madame  Bertin  cast  a  contemptuous  look  at 
Marie,  saying,  '  I  am  only  afraid  such  a  crea- 
ture would  be  too  coarse  and  rough  for  my  ten- 
der Bijou  ! — However, you  may  come  in ;  I  will 
make  a  trial  of  you.' 

The  door  was  now  opened  ;  the  lady  entered, 
followed  by  her  servant  carrying  the  snoring 
dog,  and  by  the  poor  little  Savoyard  girl. 

When  they  entered  the  drawing-room,  the 
first  most  important  business  was  to  get   readv 


164  THE   SAVOYARD   BOT. 

the  soft  bed  of  the  treasured  lap-dog,  and  careful- 
ly to  cover  him  over  with  the  embroidered  quilt. 
This  being  done,  its  mistress  turned  her  eyes 
towards  poor  Marie,  and  exclaimed,  in  great 
contempt  :  '  What  a  dusty,  dirty  object  that  is  ! 
Mind,  Therese,  she  must  not  approach  my  Bijou 
too  closely  in  that  pickle.  Do  pray  take  her 
away,  and  give  her  some  straw  to  sleep  upon, 
and  don't  let  me  see  her  again  before  she  is 
washed  and  made  more  decent.  Have  you  no 
other  clothes,  girl,  but  those  you  have  on  ? 
Why,  they  are  nothing  but  rags.' 

Poor  Marie  !  what  were  her  feelings  when  so 
addressed  !  But  she  made  no  reply,  and  follow- 
ed Therese,  who  showed  her  into  a  room,  in  the 
corner  of  which  she  made  her  a  bed  of  straw, 
and  gave  her  a  piece  of  bread  ;  this  the  poor 
girl  quickly  demolished,  and  creeping  to  her 
straw  bed,  she  very  soon  fell  asleep. 

In  the  morning,  after  cleaning  herself,  and 
arranging  her  dress  the  best  way  possible,  she 
appeared  before  her  new  mistress.  The  latter 
was  reclining  upon  the  sofa  at  breakfast,  whilst 
Bijou,  not  yet  quite  awake,  was  at  her  side. 

'  Well,'  said  she,  '  you  look  a  trifle  more  de- 
cent now.     Pray  what  do  they  call  you  ?' 

The  contrast  between  the  soft  and  gentle  tone 
with  which  she  addressed  her  dog,  and  the 
harsh  and  brutal  style  with  which  she  spoke  to 
our  little  Savoyard  was  painfully  cutting,  and 
affected  Marie  to  tears. 


THE    SAVOYARD    BOY.  166 

'  My  name  is  Marie,'  she  gently  replied. 

'  Why,  I  declare  you  are  actually  crying,'  said 
Madame  Bertin  ;  '  come,  come,  I  won't  have 
that  :  do  you  hear  ?  Mind,  I  have  taken  you 
out  of  the  streets  for  the  sake  of  my  sweet  little 
Bijou,  and  you  will  understand  that  your  duty  is 
to  attend  to  every  thing  he  wants,  and  when  he  is 
asleep  you  must  fan  away  the  flies  from  (tormen- 
ting him  ;  and  you  must  set  his  pillow  aright, 
play  with  him  when  he  wishes  it,  and,  in  fact,  you 
must  be  entirely  at  his  command.  And  for  all 
this  I  will  give  you  your  food,  and  such  other 
trifling  things  as  a  poor,  common  peasant  girl 
like  you  may  want.' 

At  this  moment  a  young  girl,  about  eighteen 
years  of  age,  was  shown  in  by  Therese,  and, 
making  a  neat  courtesy,  said  very  humbly — 
*  Good  morning,  madame  ;  you  will  excuse  my 
intruding  so  early,  but  1  have  brought  the  work 
you  gave  me  to  do.' 

Madame  nodded  her  head  haughtily,  and  said 
— '  Well,  and  how  have  you  done  it  ?  Have 
you  brought  Bijou's  collar  and  cushion  ?' 

'  Yes,  madame,  every  thing  ;  and  I  hope  you 
will  be  satisfied.'  She  then  opened  the  parcel 
— and,  oh  !  what  beautiful  things  did  she  pro- 
duce !  Marie  was  lost  in  admiration,  for  she 
had  never  seen  any  thing  like  it. 

Madame  Bertin  appeared  pleased,  although, 
from  principle,  she  here  and  there  found  some- 
thing to  find  fault  with.     '  Well,  and  have  you 


166  TTIU    SAVOYARD    BOY. 

like  to  pay  directly,  for  I  am  not  like   some  of 
my   rank  whom  you  may  work  for.' 

The  young  girl  handed  her  the  bill  ;  but  the 
moment  she  saw  it  she  flew  into  a  violent  pas- 
sion. 

'  These  charges  are  much  too  high  !'  she  ex- 
claimed ;  '  I  never  heard  of  such  prices  !  I 
shall  certainly  not  employ  you  again,  young 
woman,  nor  recommend  you  to  any  more  of  my 
friends,  if  you  charge  like  this.  No  ;  these 
four  francs  certainly  must  be  deducted.* 

'  I  hope,  madame,  you  will  not  do  that ;  for 
indeed  I  have  not  overcharged  you  one  farthing ; 
and  I  assure  you  I  have  worked  night  and" 
day  at  it.' 

'  Ay,  ay,'  returned  Madame  Berlin,  '  you 
always  say  so  ;  but  it  is  not  the  work  we  pay 
for  :  it  is  for  the  plays,  for  the  dancing,  and  for 
the  fine  dresses,  to  which  you  devote  your 
money.' 

The  young  woman  cast  an  expressive  look 
at  her  own  neat  but  simple  dress,  and  said — 
•  Alas,  madame,  there  are  six  of  us  in  the  family, 
and  we  only  live  by  our  needlework,  and  that 
but  very  sparingly.' 

*  Ay,  ay,  I  understand  all  that  sort  of  excuse  ; 
however,  here  is  the  money  ;  I  will  pay  the 
three  francs,  but  the  fourth  I  shall  deduct,  if  you 
wish  to  do  any  more  for  me.' 

The  maiden  took  the  money  with  a  sigh,  and 


THE    SAVOYARD    BOY.  167 

withdrew.  This  scene  touched  Marie  very 
much  ;  for  the  young  woman,  at  first  so  cheer- 
ful, had  now  walked  away  with  a  troubled, 
mournful  countenance.  No  doubt  the  harsh 
words  of  Madame  Berlin  had  grieved  her  more 
than  the  loss  of  the  franc,  and  Marie  could  not 
understand  how  a  lady  so  rich  could  act  so  mean 
and  cruel. 

But  our  poor  little  Savoyard  girl  herself  was 
equally  forced  to  experience  this  harsh  treat- 
ment. She,  poor  thing,  received  scarcely  e- 
nough  of  dry  bread  to  appease  her  hunger, 
whilst  the  petted  dog  was  fed  upon  every  dain- 
ty. Every  now  and  then  she  was  reprimanded 
for  not  showing  enough  attention  to  the  little 
brute  ;  and,  wearied  with  the  bad  usage  she  re- 
ceived, she  was  glad  when  night  came,  so  that 
she  might  lament  her  sad  destiny  upon  her  bed 
of  straw. 

Thus  passed  over  some  weeks,  when,  by  some 
accident,  the  dog  became  ill  and  died  ;  and  her 
mistress,  in  her  lamentations  for  her  pet,  reven- 
ged herself  upon  poor  Marie,  and  turned  her 
out  of  doors. 

It  was  a  bitter  cold  night  ;  and,  shivering 
from  its  inclemency,  the  poor  girl  walked  about, 
lamenting  her  unhappy  lot,  and  seeking  in  vain 
for  shelter.  She  crouched  down  on  the  step  of 
a  door,  and  finding  there,  by  accident,  an  old 
straw  mat,  she  wrapped  herself  up  in  it,  and 
thus  awaited  the  approach  of  morning.     Alas  ' 


168  THE    BAVOYAED    BOY. 

how  dreadfully  did  she  suffer  the  whole  of  that 
freezing  night  !  Morning  at  length  appeared, 
and  at  that  early  hour,  a  young  girl,  with  a 
basket  in  her  hand,  passed  her  hastily — '  Ah, 
Mademoiselle  Manon  !  Mademoiselle  Manon  !' 
exclaimed  poor  Marie.  The  young  person  she 
thus  challenged,  was  no  other  than  the  embroi- 
dress  whom  she  had  seen  at  Madame  Bertin's. 
Attracted  by  her  voice,  the  young  woman  turn- 
ed round,  and,  on  seeing  the  poor  creature  in 
such  affliction,  almost  dead  with  cold,  she  ran 
towards  her,  and  said — '  Good  Heavens,  Marie, 
what  has  brought  you  here  in  this  sad  state  V 

'  0  !  Mademoiselle  Manon  !'  faltered  Marie  ; 

'  all  night .'     Manon  stayed  not  a  moment, 

but,  seizing  her  hand,  helped  her  up,  and  sup- 
ported her  along  towards  her  own  home,  where 
they  soon  arrived  ;  and,  ascending  to  the  fifth 
floor,  Manon  opened  a  door,  and  led  the  suffer- 
ing girl  into  a  small  but  cheerful  room.  An  el- 
derly matron,  who  was  busy  with  some  needle- 
work, raised  her  head  as  the  door  was  opened, 
and  exclaimed,  in  surprise,  '  Whom  are  you 
bringing  there,  Manon  ?' 

*  Only  look,  dear  mother,  look,'  replied  her 
daughter,  with  emotion,  '  at  this  poor  little  girl, 
almost  frozen  to  death  !  I  found  her  shivering 
at  a  street  door,  and  have  brought  her  home  for 
shelter.  She  was  with  that  Madame  Berlin, 
for  whom  I  work,  you  know,  and  who  always 
deducts  from  my  poor  earnings.' 


THE    6AV07AED   BOT.  169 

The  good  matron  immediately  put  aside  her 
work,  and  soon  got  ready  some  hot  tea  and  bread 
and  butter,  which  she  gave  to  the  child,  who  now 
soon  felt  the  beneficial  effects  of  her  kindness. 
She  had  now  revived,  and  feeling  much  stronger, 
she  related  to  her  charitable  friends  all  that  had 
transpired  since  Manon  had  seen  her  at  Madame 
Bertin's.  During  this  time,  the  group  was  join- 
fid  by  two  of  Manon's  little  sisters,  about  the 
age  of  Marie  ;  and  as  she  went  on  with  her 
narrative,  their  sympathizing  little  hearts  gave 
vent  to  their  emotions,  and  they  exclaimed,  ev- 
erj'  now  and  then  : — '  Poor  Marie  ! — to  be  turned 
out  by  that  wicked  woman  in  such  a  bitter  cold 
night  I'  Nor  was  there,  in  fact,  of  all  the  listen- 
ing circle,  one  eye  that  remained  unmoistened. 

When  the  little  Savoyard  had  ended,  Manon 
put  her  arms  round  the  neck  of  her  good  mother, 
and,  kissing  her,  said — '  Dear  mother,  Provi- 
dence has  thrown  this  poor  forsaken  girl  into 
our  arms  for  protection — ought  we  not  to  do 
what  we  can  for  her  ?  Besides,  you  know,  this 
evening  will  be  Christmas  Eve,  and  that  gives 
the  circumstance  a  more  sacred  character.' 

'  Why,  dear  Manon,'  replied  her  mother,  smi- 
ling kindly,  '  you  know  we  are  already  six  in 
number,' 

'  0,  never  mind  that  ;  I  am  sure  you  will  let 
her  stay  with  us  :  she  is  but  a  child,  and  will 
not  require  much  ;  and  she  can  help  us  al  our 
work,  and  be  useful  in  various  wavs..* 


170  THE    SAVOYARD   BOY. 

Marie  said  not  a  word  ;  she  timidly  and  anx- 
iously cast  her  eyes  on  the  ground,  not  ventur- 
ing to  look  up,  when  the  two  younger  children 
took  her  by  the  hand,  and  led  her  to  their 
parent. 

'  Then  be  it  so  !  Come,  my  dear,  forlorn 
child,  if  the  Almighty's  will  has  led  you  to  us, 
He  will  also,  be  assured,  grant  us  the  means  of 
supporting  you,'  said  the  good  woman  gen- 
erously. 

It  need  not  be  said,  how  delighted  Manon  and 
her  sisters  were  at  this  arrangement.  The  lat- 
ter, especially,  paid  their  new  inmate  the  most 
affectionate  attention  ;  so  that  Marie  was  soon 
quite  at  home.  '  And,'  said  they,  '  as  this  even- 
ing is  Christmas  eve,  our  dear  '  godfather'  will 
be  here  ;  and  won't  he  be  astonished,  as  well  as 
Paul  and  Robert  ?' 

Paul  and  Robert  were  their  brothers  ;  the 
former  still  went  to  school,  but  the  latter  was 
apprenticed  to  the  worthy  '  godfather,'  who  kept 
a  grocer's  shop  close  by. 

Monsieur  Dupart,  or,  the  '  godfather,'  as  he 
was  always  styled  in  the  family,  was,  in  reali- 
ty, a  worthy,  good-hearted  man,  and  although, 
as  a  national  guard,  he  wore  a  very  thick  pair 
of  moustaches,  yet  this  outward  fierceness  of 
expression  was  finely  contrasted  with  his  mild 
and  playful  manner  towards  children. 

The  evening  at  length  arrived,  and  with  it 
the  expected  '  godfather.'     He  was  in  uniform. 


//    /  / 


MONSIKDH    nUPART    AND    UAItlB 


THE    SAVOYABD    BOY.  171 

for  on  that  day  he  had  been  on  duly.  The  chil- 
dren, at  other  times  when  he  came,  would  cling 
about  him,  and  jump  upon  his  lap,  as  he,  of 
course,  always  came  provided  with  something  ; 
but  this  time  he  could  not  allow  it,  inasmuch  as 
he  had  all  his  pockets,  and  his  very  cap,  loaded 
and  crammed  full  of  presents. 

'  Well,  niy  children,'  said  he,  '  here  we  are 
once  more  altogether  ;  it's  a  beautiful  thing  to 
be  thus  able  to  pass  the  Christmas  eve  amidst 
bright  contented  faces.  It  is  not  every  family 
in  Paris  can  do  that.  Come,  my  good  children,' 
he  continued,  '  I  feel  quite  happy  that  we  have 
met  in  such  good  health,  and  for  that,  if  for 
nothing  else,  we  ought  to  feel  grateful  and  con- 
tented towards  the  Almighty,'  Just  at  this  mo- 
ment his  eye  fell  upon  the  little  stranger. 
*  Bless  me,  children,  why  who  have  you  got 
there,  pray  ? — Who  is  that  little  girl  V 

The  good  mother  and  the  sisters  now  brieflj 
related  to  him  the  particulars  connected  with 
poor  Marie's  distressed  situation,  and  how  they 
had  determined  to  give  her  a  home  amongst 
them.  '  Well,  that  is  good  and  kindly  done,' 
said  the  '  godfather,'  as  he  stroked  his  mousta- 
ches, which  he  always  did  when  he  felt  pleas- 
ed ;  '  and  you  are  an  excellent  girl,  Manon. — 
Come  here,  my  good  Marie,  look  here  ;  I  am 
the  godfather  of  all  these  children  here,  and  now 
I  will  be  yours  too — have  you  any  objection  ?' 

.loyful,  grateful  tears,  were  the  only  reply  the 


172  THE    SAVOYARD   BOY. 

happy  Marie  could  return  to  this  benevolent 
man,  intermixed  with  some  bitter  sobs  of  lamen- 
tation at  the  recollection  of  her  mother  and 
brother. 

Monsieur  Dupart,  being  told  of  the  loss  she 
had  sustained,  and  having  made  every  inquiry 
respecting  his  appearance,  age,  size,  &c.  assured 
them  that  he  would  not  lose  a  moment  in  ap- 
plying to  the  proper  authorities,  to  institute  ev- 
ery possible  search  for  him.  And  now  the  mo- 
ment arrived  for  the  distribution  of  the  various 
presents  ;  and  amongst  the  happy  ones  who  re- 
ceived them,  the  adopted  stranger  was  not  for- 
gotten, for  each  of  them  had  generously  arran- 
ged beforehand,  with  their  mother,  that  she 
should  take  something  from  their  own  portions, 
and  give  it  to  Marie  ;  and  which  the  matron, 
with  gratified  feelings,  had  not  failed  to  do. 

The  good  '  godfather'  then  took  an  affection- 
ate leave  of  all  ;  and  thus  was  spent  an  evening 
full  of  love  and  gratitude  to  God  ! 

With  these  good  people  Marie  lived  to  see 
very  happy  days.  They  treated  her  as  their 
own  child  and  sister  ;  and  she  saw  punctually 
and  carefully  after  whatever  was  given  her  to 
do,  profiting,  at  the  same  time,  by  the  instruc- 
tion she  received  in  their  business. 

One  day  Manon  came  home  highly  delight- 
ed, for  she  had  just  received  a  very  large  order, 
amounting  to  several  hundred  francs,  from  a 
lady  of  great  wealth  and  distinction.     And  now 


THE    SAVOYARD    BOY.  173 

the  good  girl  made  her  calculation  how  long  the 
job  would  take  her  to  execute  and  complete,  and 
how  long  they  would  all  live  upon  the  profit. 
Amidst  her  joy,  however,  she  had  forgotten  to 
purchase  something  still  necessary  ;  and  so  she 
said  to  Marie  :  '  Go,  my  dear  Marie,  run  and 
fetch  me  some  ribbon,  like  these  patterns  ;  here's 
the  money.' 

Marie  bustled  along,  looking  neither  right 
nor  left,  when  she  felt  herself  suddenly  clasped 
by  two  arms.  As  she  looked  up,  the  simulta- 
enous  exclamation  was  :  '  Marie  I'  '  Seppi  !' — 
and,  rushing  into  each  other's  arms  again,  they 
affectionately  hugged  each  other  closely,  and 
shouted  and  wept  for  joy  :  and  then  they  had 
so  much  to  ask  of  each  other — they  had  so  much 
to  tell — that  Marie  naturally  quite  forgot  all  a- 
bout  her  dear  Manon's  commission.  The  latter, 
finding  she  did  not  return,  became  very  anx- 
ious, and  fearing  something  serious  had  hap- 
pened to  her,  she  determined  to  seek  for  her, 
and  was  just  leaving  the  house,  when  she  was 
met  by  Marie,  safe  and  sound,  happy  and  joyful, 
with  her  brother  and  Monsieur  Dumenil.  She 
perceived  at  once  the  happy  cause  of  the  delay  ; 
for  she  had  not  the  slightest  doubt  but  that  it 
was  Seppi,  the  lost  brother. 

'Yes,  mademoiselle,'  said  Monsieur  Dumenil, 
•  it  is  indeed  Seppi  ;  and,  thank  God,  the  dear 
and  affectionate  brother  and  sister  have  at  length 
been  restored  to  each  other  !' 


174  THE    SAVOYARD   BOY. 

They  all  went  up  stairs,  and  there  the  good 
mother  and  her  family  expressed  the  most  affec- 
tionate delight  at  this  happy  event.  The  '  god- 
father' was  sent  for,  and  soon  came  running 
down  the  street  in  his  dressing  gown  and  slip- 
pers, and  joined  cordially  in  the  happy  feelings 
of  all  present. 

The  worthy  Monsieur  Dumenil  was  much  af- 
fected by  the  genuine  friendship  and  sympathy 
shown  by  all  the  members  of  this  good  family 
towards  Seppi  and  his  sister ;  and  he  said  with- 
in himself  :  *  I  cannot  increase  by  my  money 
the  happiness  enjoyed  by  these  cheerful,  indus- 
trious people,  but  it  shall  be  my  study  to  reward 
them  for  their  kindness,  by  supplying  them  con- 
stantly with  profitable  employment.'  And  thus 
did  this  truly  philanthropic  man  ever  think  and 
act  ;  for  he  knew  the  art  of  assisting  the  needy 
in  such  an  ingenious  way,  that  his  aid  appeared 
more  as  the  reward  of  their  own  merits,  than  as 
an  act  of  mere  charity. 

And  now,  in  conclusion,  we  have  only  to  add, 
that  Marie  remained  in  the  happy  circle  of  those 
who  had  taken  her  by  the  hand  on  the  eve  ot 
the  Christmas  festival  ;  and  Seppi  stayed  with 
his  benefactor,  who  set  out  himself  for  the  Sa- 
voyard's home,  and  brought  the  delighted  mo- 
ther of  these  good  children  to  Paris.  He  there 
also  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  worthy 
Thomas,  who  could   not   sufficiently  congratu- 


THE    SAVOYARD   BOY.  175 

laie  himself  on  finding  that  his  advice  had  met 
with  such  a  happy  resuU. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  years  afterwards,  Ma- 
non  and  Marie  became  happy  mothers  of  fami- 
lies ;  Seppi  flourished  as  an  opulent  tradesman, 
havintj  adopted  and  followed  the  motto  of  Mon- 
sieur Dumenil — '  Want  nothing  but  what  God 
grants  !'  and  that  good  man  now  rests  in  peace 
under  the  green  turf,  his  memory  cherished 
and  revered  by  all  ! 


SUPERSTITIOUS   FEAR. 


"  Francesca  !" 

"I  am  here,  mother." 

"  Come  near  me,  my  child." 

A  little  girl,  trembling  with  cold,  came  from  a 
corner  in  which  she  had  been  crouching  on  the  bare 
floor,  and  approached  a  bed  at  the  farther  side  of 
the  room.  • 

On  that  bed  a  woman  was  lying ;  she  was  not 
old,  but  evidently  very  sick  and  feeble.  It  was 
almost  dark,  but  there  was  yet  light  enough  to  ena- 
ble one  to  distinguish  the  two  wretched  human 
beings,  who  dwelt  in  a  small,  lonely  cottage  not  far 
from  St.  Jervaise,  a  small  town  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Barcelona. 

"  Francesca,"  said  the  sick  woman,  making  a 
strong  eflfort  to  raise  herself  in  the  bed,  and  take  the 
outstretched  hand  of  her  child, "  I  am  dying ;  I  must 
see  the  priest." 

"  But  mother,"  answered  the  child,  in  great  anxi- 
ety, "  the  priest  lives  far  away ;  it  would  take  an 
hour  to  go  there,  and  it  is  already  night ;  it  has 
stopped  snowing,  it  is  true — but,  listen  to  the  wind — 
how  it  blows — and  the  rustling  of  the  trees,  and — " 


SUPERSTITIOUS    FEAR.  177 

"  Bat,  Francesca,  I  am  dying,  and  I  cannot  die  in 
peace,  till  I  see  the  piiest." 

"  The  priest's  house  is  near  the  church,"  answered 
the  frightened  girl,  "  and  I  must  pass  through  the 
church-yard.     Yesterday  they  buried  the  old  man.** 

"  Francesca,  you  are  twelve  years  old,"  said  the 
unhappy  woman  ;  "  you  must  have  some  thought, 
some  love  for  your  poor  mother.  Do  you  wish  to 
wait  till  morning?  Ah,  me!  who  can  tell  that  I 
shall  live  so  long.  Death  will  not  wait,  my  daugh- 
ter.    Oh,  tell  me  you  will  go !" 

"  If  you  command  me,  I  must  go,"  answered  Fran- 
cesca sullenly. 

"  I  do  not  command  you,  Francesca ;  I  beg  you — 
1  beseech  you.  If  I  had  strength  enough  to  rise,  I 
would  go  down  on  my  knees  before  you,  to  beg  you 
to  have  pity  on  me.  Oh,  gracious  heaven !  you  are 
afraid  to  go  out  in  the  night ;  is  it  not  so  ?" 

"  Oh,  mother !  only  think  of  it !  I  must  pass 
through  the  burying-grouud.  It  is  now  night ;  it 
will  be  nearly  twelve  o'clock  when  I  get  there : 
twelve  o'clock !    when  the  dead  leave  their  graves  I" 

"  Francesca  !"  said  the  sick  woman  in  deep  men- 
tal anguish,  "  I  shall  not  live  till  to-morrow.  I 
know  it ;  and  I  must  die  without  confession.  Have 
pity  on  me,  my  child.  The  dead  rest  in  peace ; 
they  cannot  harm  you.    Pity  your  poor  mother ; 


178  SUPERSTITIOUS    FKAR. 

you  will  be  thankful  when  you  think  of  me,  after  I 
am  dead." 

P'rancesca  could  no  longer  resist;  she  turned 
slowly  fx'om  the  bed,  walked  to  the  door,  opened  it 
and  went  out.  The  poor  child  was  thinly  clad,  her 
head  was  bare,  and  she  was  without  shoes  or  stock- 
ings. The  surface  of  the  ground  was  covered  by  a 
thick  crust  of  snow,  and  the  wind  whistled  fiercely, 
racking  her  to  the  very  bones.  She  glanced  hope- 
lessly and  timidly  around,  afraid  to  advance,  and  un- 
willing and  ashamed  to  return.  She  stood  still  for 
some  time,  trying  to  gain  courage  to  proceed,  till  at 
length,  to  her  great  joy,  she  saw  a  light  glimmering 
at  a  distance,  from  the  window  of  another  cottage, 
like  that  which  she  and  her  mother  occupied.  She 
ran  hastily  towards  it,  reached  the  door,  and  knocked 
loudly.  It  was  opened  by  a  girl  a  little  older  than 
herself. 

"  Are  you  alone,  Antonia  ?"  Francesca  asked. 

"  Yes,  Francesca.  My  mother  is  in  Barcelona, 
and  will  not  return  till  to-morrow,  and  my  father  is 
away  at  his  work.  I  was  just  thinking  what  I  should 
do,  for  I  am  afraid  to  be  alone,  and  I  was  going  to 
bed  when  you  knocked.     What  do  you  want  ?" 

"  I  am  going  to  the  priest's  house.  Do  come  with 
me,  Antonia!  My  mother  says  she  is  dying;  and, 
oh,  Antonia !  I  do  believe  she  speaks  the  truth,"  and 


SUPERSTITIOUS    FEAR.  179 

poor  Francesca  began  to  sob  and  weep. 

"  And  your  ntother  \fishes  you  to  go  for  the  priest 
at  this  time  of  night,  and  you  think  that  I  will  go 
with  you !  A  thousand  thanks,  my  good  httle 
neighbor ;  I  have  never  seen  any  ghosts,  and  I  have 
no  wish  to  see  them.  Perhaps  you  forget  that  you 
must  pass  through  the  burying-ground  !" 

"  That  is  what  I  said  to  my  mother,"  Francesca 
replied. 

"And  what  did  she  answer?" 

"  That  death  will  not  wait." 

"  Bah  !"  exclaimed  Antonia  :  " '  that  death  will 
not  wait !'  That  is  always  the  cry  of  the  sick  and 
the  old.  One  does  not  die  so  easily,  as  we  both 
know.  Think  of  the  old  nurse  at  St.  Jervaise — she 
is  eighty  years  old,  and  every  night  she  says  that 
she  is  sure  that  she  will  not  live  till  morning.  What 
then  !  morning  comes,  and  she  is  still  alive — it  is  a 
mere  fancy,  and  that  is  the  case  with  your  mother. 
She  wishes  you  to  go  for  the  priest ;  that  is  always 
the  whim  of  the  sick.  I  know  what  you  shall  do, 
Francesca,  Stop  here  with  me  for  an  hour  or  so  ; 
then  go  home  and  say  that  the  priest  is  not  at 
home — or,  that  you  could  not  find  your  way  in  the 
dark — or,  that  you  got  lost — or,  indeed,  you  can 
make  any  excuse." 


180  SUPERSTITIOUS    FEAR. 

"But  such  an  excuse  will  be  a  lie,"  Francesca 
said.  •• 

"  An  innocent  lie,  that  does  nobody  any  harm. 
Do  what  I  tell  you,  Francesca ;  it  will  save  you  a 
terrible  walk.  I  am  a  year  older  than  you,  and  so 
have  so  much  more  experience.     Come  in." 

Francesca's  young  but  not  overscrupulous  neigh- 
bor added  many  other  reasons,  about  which  we  need 
not  trouble  ourselves,  to  persuade  her  to  do  that 
which  both  well  knew  in  their  own  hearts  to  be  very 
wrong.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  superstitious  fe:ir 
made  Francesca  consent  to  follow  her  neighbor's 
bad  advice.  She  entered  the  cottage,  and  remained 
there  about  as  long  as  it  would  have  taken  her  to  go 
to  the  town  and  back,  and  then  returned  to  her  own 
dwelling.  A  lamp,  brought  by  an  aged  neighbor, 
was  burning  near  her  mother's  bed,  but  without 
looking  at  that  mother,  who  could  not  see  the  tell- 
tale blush  that  was  on  her  cheek,  she  uttered  the  lie 
agreed  upon. 

"  Oh,  merciful  heaven !"  exclaimed  the  unhappy 
woman ;  "  my  sins  are  too  great.  Thou  hast  not 
permitted  this  poor  child  to  bring  one  of  thy  holy 
ministers  to  my  help.  I  am  a  miserable,  sinful 
creature  ;  have  mercy  on  me  !  Grant  me  one  day 
more  of  suffering — only  one  day  more — one  night — 
one  single  hour  for  repentance  and  for  atonement! 


FRANCESCA. 


SCl'ERSTITIOUS    FEAR.  181 

but  no — no — I  am  dying !"  The  unhappy  woman 
fell  back  exhausted  on  her  pillow. 

*'  Oh,  mother,  mother !"  exclaimed  Francesca,  ter- 
rified by  her  mother's  agony,  and  by  the  thought  of 
the  lie  which  she  had  told,  and  which  she  now  bit- 
terly repented.  "  Mother,  I  have  lied  :  I  have  not 
been  to  the  town ;  you  will  not  die  yet,  mother — not 
yet — I  am  going — I  will  fly.  Oh,  dear  mother  !  one 
word  before  I  go ;  tell  me  that  you  are  not  dead !" 

The  sick  woman  turned  a  look  of  agony  upon  her 
daughter :  "  I  forgive  you,"  she  said,  in  weak  and 
broken  tones  ;  "  fear  has  made  you  cruel,  barbarous. 
Unhappy  child !  now,  I  fear,  it  is  too  late." 

"  Oh !  you  must  not  die  till  I  come  back ;  I  am 
not  afraid  now — 1  go."  Tears  stopped  her  words, 
but  she  darted  swiftly  through  the  door. 

Like  almost  all  children  of  her  age  and  condition, 
Francesca  had  implicit  faith  in  the  absurd  tales  of 
supernatural  appearances,  so  common  among  the 
ignorant  and  superstitious,  although  the  good  priest 
had  endeavored,  in  some  measure,  to  guard  her 
against  their  influence.  She  was  agitated  by  two 
emotions :  the  one,  that  her  mother  might  die  with- 
out confession  ;  the  other,  that  she  herself  might 
meet  some  terrible  phantom  on  her  road.  The 
former  made  her,  at  first,  run  with  her  utmost  speed 
across  the  country,  without  the  slightest  thought  of 


182  SUPERSTITIOUS    FEAK. 

wliat  might  await  her;  but,  as  her  strength  gradually 
failed,  and  she  was  obliged  to  slacken  her  pace,  the 
second  had  so  much  power  over  her  that  she  sud- 
denly stopped,  rooted,  as  it  were,  to  the  spot,  and 
unable  to  move.  Superstitious  terror,  my  young 
friends,  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  overpowenng  of 
all  human  infinnities ;  it  is  but  too  common  to  all 
ages  and  conditions,  but  its  withering  influence  is 
most  potent  when  the  mind  is  ignorant  and  untaught: 
knowledge  and  science,  united  to  the  conviction  of 
the  constant  supervision  of  our  omniscient  God,  are 
our  best  safeguards  against  it.  The  young  are  most 
liable  to  be  assailed  by  it,  and  yield  most  readily  to 
its  tyranny.  Poor  Fi'ancesca  felt  its  terrible  power ; 
she  trembled  in  every  limb,  while  fancy  gave  to  nat- 
ural objects  an  exaggerated  and  supernatural  ap- 
pearance. The  long  shadows  which  the  trees  threw 
across  the  road  seemed,  to  the  simple  country  girl, 
so  many  phantoms  vising  up  to  obstruct  her  path  ; 
the  wind,  in  its  fierce  whistling,  spoke  to  her  in 
threatening  tones ;  and  the  snow,  crunched  under  her 
trembling  weight,  whispered  to  her  in  strange  and 
sad  moanings.  The  church-yard  was  immediately 
before  her,  and  she  lost  all  her  remaining  courage  as 
she  gazed  upon  its  swelling  graves  and  white  crosses, 
brilliant  and  glittering  in  their  snowy  robes.  As  in- 
capable of  advancing  as  of  receding,  she  stood  for  a 


SUPERSTITIOUS    FEAR.  183 

time  motionless,  with  one  foot  upon  the  road  and 
the  other  upon  the  path  that  led  across  the  ceme- 
tery. 

Suddenly  the  clock  of  St.  Jervaise  began  to  strike 
the  hour  of  twelve.  Its  slow  and  solemn  tones, 
united  with  the  dismal  wailing  of  the  wind,  increased 
the  terror  of  the  poor  child.  All  the  tales  of  the 
dead  rising  from  their  graves  at  that  terrible  hour ; 
of  ghostly  fornis,  flitting  in  their  white  shrouds  from 
tomb  to  tomb,  so  aptly  represented  to  her  disordered 
fancy  by  the  snow-drifts  lying  around  ;  and  of  ter- 
rific shapes  luring  the  unwaiy  traveller  to  destruc- 
tion— all  recurred  to  her  mind,  and  made  her  fancy 
that  she  could  see  them  gazing  at  her  with  stony 
eyes,  and  hear  them  muttering  in  every  sound.  She 
felt  her  limbs  trembling  and  failing,  and  she  sank 
upon  her  knees  even  without  the  power  to  pray. 

We  know  not  how  long  she  remained  in  that 
state  of  bodily  and  mental  torpor.  The  severe  cold 
at  last  recalled  her  wandering  senses  ;  she  thought  of 
her  sick  mother,  who  had  perhaps  that  instant  died — 
died  without  confession,  and  by  her  fault.  This 
painful  idea,  overpowering  every  fear,  made  her  pre- 
pare to  rise;  but  she  first  uttered  a  heartfelt  though 
brief  prayer  for  strength  and  courage  to  enable  her 
to  pass  those  dreaded  graves ;  the  silent  tenants  of 
mauv  of  which,  she   herself,  thoueh   young,  had 


184  SUPERSTITIOUS   FKAR. 

known  m  life.  Then,  strengthened  by  this  act  of 
devotion,  she  suddenly  rose  from  her  knees,  passed, 
without  looking  either  to  the  right  or  left,  rapidly 
through  the  church-yard,  and  at  last  reached  the 
dwelling  of  the  priest. 

"  My  mother  is  dying,"  was  all  that  Francesca 
could  say  to  the  female  servant  who  opened  the 
door.  She  was  taken  into  the  house  and  permitted 
to  enjoy  the  welcome  luxury  of  a  fire,  until  the 
priest,  clad  in  his  sacred  vestments,  and  bearing  the 
holy  oil,  made  his  appearance.  He  was  accompa- 
tiied  by  his  nephew,  a  young  boy,  likewise  clothed 
in  gown  and  cap,  and  guided  by  Francesca  they 
hastened  to  the  aid  of  the  sick  woman. 

As  they  approached  the  cottage,  Francesca  saw  a 
white  cloud  rising  in  the  eastern  horizon,  and  ex- 
claiming, with  a  trembling  voice,  "It  is  already 
daybreak,  and  my  mother  is  dead,"  she  again  burst 
into  tears,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  apron. 

It  was  with  some  diflBculty  that  the  good  priest 
could  soothe  her  grief  and  induce  her  to  proceed. 
As  they  entered  the  house,  the  exclamation,  "  Praise 
be  to  heaven !"  uttered  by  the  dying  woman  when 
she  saw  his  white  robes,  made  the  priest  aware  that 
he  was  yet  in  time,  and  gladdened  the  heart  of  poor 
Francesca,  who,  with  the  boy,  remained  in  the 
porch,  while  the  priest  approached  her  mother's  bed. 


SUPERSTITIOUS    FEAR.  185 

"  Oh,  merciful  heaven !  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
more !"  said  the  dying  woman  ;  and  then,  seeing  the 
priest  near  her,  she  added  :  *'  Death  has  already 
seized  upon  me ;  I  feel  it  in  my  heart — come  nearer, 
quickly — listen  to  me,  and  receive  my  confession — 
and — oh,  my  soul !  tell  me,  can  I  hope  for  pardon  ? 
Twelve  years  ago  the  Marchioness  of  Casa-Flor — she 
— she  lives  in  Barcelona — gave  me  her  child  to 
nurse,  and  went  away  with  her  husband  on  a  long 
journey.  The  children — my  own  child  and  hers — 
were  of  the  same  age — alike  in  size — in  complexion — 
but  hers  was  sickly.  I  thought,  and  my  husband 
too,  that  it  could  not  live.  Why  should  the  child 
of  the  rich  one  die,  and  mine — my  poor  little  one 
live — live  to  be  poor  and  wretched  ?  I  changed 
them — gave  mine  to  the  lady,  and  kept  the  little 
sick  babe  for  my  own,  but  a  just  God  has  punished 
me.  .  My  child,  my  strong,  healthy  one  died,  and  I, 
its  own  mother,  could — could  not  even  kiss  its  pale 
lips !     The  other  lived — the  other  is — is — " 

"The  other  is — "  repeated  the  priest,  bending 
eagerly  down,  for  he  well  knew  that  the  unhappy 
woman  was  on  the  very  point  of  death — "  the  other 
is—?" 

"  Francesca — pardon — oh,  my  Sa — "  She  expired 
uttering  these,  her  last  words. 

"  Mother !  dear  mother  1"  exclaimed  poor  Fran- 


186  SUPERSTITIOUS    FEAR. 

cesca,  as  she  rushed  weeping  to  the  bed,  and  threw 
herself  upon  the  lifeless  form  that  lay  there.  She 
had  not  heard  the  confession,  but  the  sad  and  solemn 
prayers  for  the  dead,  uttered  by  the  priest,  had 
warned  her  that  she  had  forever  lost  her  whom  she 
liad  always  called  her  mother. 

"  She  was  not  your  mother,  my  child,"  said  the 
priest  in  gentle  tones;  "your  mother  is  yet  living. 
Be  thankful  that  heaven  granted  you  strength  and 
courage  to  come  and  seek  me.  A  quarter  of  an 
hour  more  and  you  would  indeed  have  been  an  or- 
phan." 

Francesca  looked  at  him  in  amazement,  but  un- 
derstood not  the  meaning  of  his  words;  and  as  little 
did  she  understand  why,  after  a  brief  space  of  time, 
he  took  her  by  the  hand  and  led  her  back  with  him 
to  his  own  dwelling.  The  good  priest  delivered  her 
to  the  charge  of  his  housekeeper,  and,  in  half  an 
hour  the  latter  made  a  complete  and  surprising 
change  in  the  outward  appearance  of  our  little  girl. 
She  was  decently  and  comfortably  clad,  and  with 
her  face  and  hands  perfectly  clean,  and  her  hair 
neatly  combed,  she  appeared  a  different  being  from 
the  terrified,  half-frozen,  and  forlorn  little  child,  who 
had,  a  few  hours  before,  passed  in  fear  and  trembling 
through  the  cemetery  of  St.  Jervaise. 

The  priest  took  her  to  the  house  of  the  Marchio- 


SUPEESTITIOUS    FEAR.  187 

ness  of  Casa-Flor,  sent  his  name  to  that  lady,  and 
soon  after,  leading  Francesca  by  the  hand,  found 
himself  in  her  presence.  Kindly  and  gradually  he 
prepared  her  afflicted  heart  for  the  glad  tidings  he 
was  about  to  give ;  he  spoke  to  her  of  the  dead 
child  ;  of  the  visit  which  he  had  paid  to  the  dying 
nuise  ;  of  the  confession  which  she  had  made,  and, 
finally,  presented  Francesca  as  her  own  true  and 
loving  daughter. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  mingled 
wonder,  doubt,  and  joy  which  his  communication 
caused.  The  doubt,  however,  was  almost  moment- 
ary, for  the  striking  likeness  of  Francesca  to  herself 
soon  convinced  the  Marchioness  that  she  was  indeed 
her  own  child.  In  heartfelt  thankfulness  she  re- 
ceived and  acknowledged  her  as  such.  And  Fran- 
cesca !  Happy  and  beloved,  she  never  forgot  her 
midnight  journey  through  the  dreaded  church-yard, 
and  as  she  thought  of  the  vain  terrors  that  had 
made  her  utter  a  premeditated  lie,  she  sincerely  la- 
mented her  fault,  and  as  sincerely  thanked  Heaven 
for  the  courage  that  had  at  last  enabled  her  to  per- 
form her  duty. 


GIVE. 


See  the  rivers  flowing 

Downward  to  the  sea, 
Pouring  all  their  treasures 

Bountiful  and  free — 
Yet  to  help  their  giving 

Hidden  springs  arise  ; 
Or,  if  need  be,  showers 

Feed  them  fcom  the  skies ! 

Watch  the  princely  flowers 

Their  rich  fragrance  spread, 
Load  the  air  with  perfumes 

From  their  beauty  shed — 
Yet  their  lavish  spending. 

Leaves  them  not  in  dearth, 
With  fresh  life  replenished 

By  their  mother  earth  ! 

Give  thy  heart's  best  treasures 

From  fair  nature  learn  ; 
Give  thy  love — and  ask  not, 

Wait  not  a  return  ! 
And  the  more  thou  spendest 

From  the  little  store. 
With  a  double  bounty 

God  will  give  thee  more. 


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